Sunrise
by Bluefire Eternal
Summary: ExS. 100 years ago, the wild dragon Eridor was murdered by his own brother, Galbatorix's servant. With his dying breath he swore revenge upon both. 84 years later, Eragon is born. Now, 16 years later, Eridor is awakening and his host is not happy.
1. Prelude 1: Sunset Updated

**2/25/12 EDIT: As previously mentioned, I am going back and rewriting many of these chapters to fix characterization problems, information that doesn't sync up with later updates, plain old grammatical and spelling mistakes, and stilted dialogue. ****_Sunset _****is getting a total rehaul, but most of the other chapters will feature far less drastic changes. Again, if older chapters after this one make no real sense, that's because they've yet to be updated. New and improved chapters will be posted with asterisks until everything is all nice and up-to-date.**

**Again, note that some material in ****_Brisingr _****and ****_Inheritance _****will NOT be compatible with this story. See bottom of the page for explanations if you're really that confused.**

**Pairings: Eventual EragonxSaphira, with some mentioned RoranxKatrina and MurtaghxNasuada (perhaps). Other pairings may or may not result, depending on my oh so fickle muse.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own ****_the Inheritance Cycle_****. However, I do own the plot, any material you do not recognize as cannon, and my OCs.**

Dusk was upon the Beor Mountains. Snow-capped mountain peaks sparkled crimson in the brilliance of the dying sunlight. Day-faring animals returned to their dens as night-dwellers went on the prowl. Those not so lucky were lifelessly carried back to caves in the talons of a dragon. In the lull between two very different times and worlds, an unusual stillness had settled over the world...

Not that all shared in the twilit tranquility.

_Eridor, you're going to leave ruts in that floor if you continue pacing like- ERIDOR!_

The King of the wild dragons snapped to attention, wrenching his gaze away from the cave entrance. His blue eyes, which burned so unnaturally bright in the growing darkness, softened apologetically as he gazed upon his mate.

Her scales were the color of sapphires, the same brilliant blue as her eyes. She was curled up in their nest, cradling her eggs with the experienced ease of a she-dragon who had seen countless hatchlings leave the birth-cave to start families of their own. Scars from past fights and hunts gone awry marred her formerly pristine hide. She was far from the delicate little yearling that had attracted males from all corners of Alagaesia, suitors Eridor had driven off tooth and claw at all hours of the day, but her beauty was timeless in his eyes.

_I'm sorry, Safiri, it's just..._

_The Order's persistence? The disappearances? This strange nest? That one little upstart's new little group of Forsworn?_

_All of that. _Eridor padded over to his mate's side. Being several years older than her, he was still close enough in size to entwine tails, draping one pale gray-membraned wing over her. _It feels like the entire world is falling apart... and there's nothing I can do to hold it together._

Safiri rubbed her head against his, licking a little scar near the corner of his mouth. _There's plenty of time to worry over the future, stoic one. Isn't this supposed to a time for celebration? A new clutch of eggs, the largest we've had in __**years**__..._

Eridor nuzzled each of the three eggs fondly. His own scales were snow-white, but that seemed to have had little effect on the colors of his unborn offspring. Two of the shells were light blue, a perfect combination of his and Safiri's hues. The third was an emerald green, like that of Eridor's own mother. All three were male. The King of the wild dragons opened his mind to his unborn children, sending them thoughts of love and warmth.

The light blue eggs didn't reply, their half-formed minds still unable to comprehend the concept of mental communication. However, the little dragon in the green egg, pushed ever so slightly back against his father's mind.

Eridor rumbled contentedly deep in his throat. _Mavalis, _he murmured to the green-shelled egg. He then pressed his snout to each of the other two. _Trinnean. Caradoc._

Safiri watched the tender exchange quietly, blue eyes brimming with memories and longing. They shouldn't have been alone in welcoming this newest brood to the world. Fully-grown sons and daughters from countless seasons prior should have surrounded them with new eggs of their own, should have filled the too-quiet air with their own roars and rumbles, should have been some of the many other extended relations inhabiting the neighboring mountains.

Instead, Safiri had laid her eggs in a nest she and Eridor had hastily carved from the rock, alone on a desolate peak that rang only with the howling wind.

Eridor glanced anxiously over at his mate. The sapphire she-dragon snorted, her tail tightening reassuringly around his. _I know we hide here at the edge of the known world for our own safety, for the safety of our youngest. Our children, your nestmates, would keep our location secret to the bitter end. Vrael can't touch us here._

The snow-white dragon growled. _It is not Vrael I worry about. The ancient pact binds him just as much as it does me. Despite the pleas of his council, he recognizes my decisions over all wild dragons as unyielding law, including those who can not yet speak for themselves. _He looked softly down at his sons. _The same can't be said, however, for those who go against everything the Riders seek to uphold._

Months ago, a new Rider had been found murdered in Ilirea, her young dragon nowhere to be found. Reports had determined the culprit to be Galbatorix, a former Shur'tugal who had gone mad after the death of his own bonded, and obsessed with vengeance after the council had denied him another. After slaughtering another Rider and dragon in cold blood, he had retreated into the wilderness and had been believed dead up until the very night chaos had erupted in Ilirea.

A young Rider by the name of Morzan had gone missing on the very same evening, and it had been determined it was he had allowed Galbatorix into Ilirea in the first place. Over the following months, other respected Shur'tugal, humans and elves alike, had defected to become the _Wyrdfell, __the_Forsworn.

Then the string of deaths and disappearances had started. Younger Riders who had left the safety of their cities behind had been found brutally murdered, the Eldunarya of their dragons ripped right out of their chests. Wild dragons were most vulnerable. First it had been solitary bachelors, then mated pairs without the protection of a larger family group, than entire small clans; everyone, from expectant mothers to the youngest hatchling, brutally slaughtered and missing their heart of hearts.

Safiri pressed their eggs closer to her chest. _Vrael himself placed the enchantments upon this cave. We cannot be scryed or magically located. _She snarled defiantly at an enemy she could see only in her mind's eye. _We are King and Queen of the wild dragons, and __**no one **__shall touch our eggs!_

_Surely one of those damned traitors paid attention to their history lessons. If so, then they have everyone reason to tr- _

A shadow not from the dusk fell upon the two dragons. Safiri positioned herself protectively over their eggs with a murderous snarl. Eridor's head snapped up, his eyes blazing dangerously... at least until he got a better look at the unexpected visitor.

The dragon standing in the cave entrance greatly resembled Eridor, right down to the unusual number of six horns crowning his head. Only, instead of being the purest white, his scales were stone-gray.

_Jarshan? _Eridor murmured, his relief quickly giving way to alarm as a chill crept down his spine. _Brother, why are you so far from the others? Our nestmates, how are they? My sons, my daughters? So help me, if Galbatorix even __**dared **__to..._

Jarshan had not budged an inch from the entrance. He watched his King and Queen solemnly, with the grim acceptance of an executioner about to carry out a sentence.

_For the love of the First King, Jarshan, what's wrong with you! _Safiri cried. She leaped to her paws, rushing over to her mate's younger brother to see what ailed him so. Or she would have, if she and Eridor hadn't suddenly found themselves unable to move.

The King of the wild dragons growled furiously, blue eyes like blazing suns in the twilight. Something unnaturally hot built up inside him, longing to be released, but his maw was sealed. His nostrils flared at the sudden _stench _of unfamiliar intruder intermingled with civilization. His sharp hearing suddenly detected a tail scraping against the rocks just outside the cave, an anxious growl, the squeaking of a leather saddle. The sound of a shattering heart, however, was only in his head.

_Traitor! _Eridor shrieked. _Oath-breaker! Bond-breaker! Blood-breaker! My own __**nestmate, **__a servant of-_

Jarshan cut him off with an enraged growl, eyes hard as stone. He opened his mind to both of the other dragons, feeling only stoic resolve for the unforgivable crimes he was about to commit against his own ruler, his own brother. _Never a __**slave **__to humans, or to elves, Eridor! Never like __**you**__; agreeing to those terms of servitude, bowing to Vrael's every whim, handing over our unhatched children to slave-drivers, betraying Aiedail and the true members of our kind so blatantly!_

Safiri's mind burned with the inferno she was unable to display. _So you stand up for your beliefs by allying with a madman! By killing your own kin in cold-_

Jarshan loomed over them both now. Eridor suddenly longed to see insanity in his brother's face, anything but the earnest conviction of a soul entirely convinced he was in the right. _Our kind is notorious for our grudges, big brother, and our unceasing desire to see the wronged avenged. Do you honestly think your own life matters above all of the others so forcibly signed away by your orders? That the mothers who have their eggs pried away from them are any less important than your own? _He growled, and any lingering bit of doubt in his heart of hearts was consumed by burning determination. _I am acting upon our oldest and most sacred laws, those you gave up for your precious Riders._

Even in the midst of such soul-wrenching treachery, Eridor found the strength to mock. _Are you expecting me to denounce everything I stand for, little brother? To suddenly see the light and beg you for the sweet release of death? A King dragon grovels to no one._

_Indeed not. _The stone-scaled dragon tenderly put a paw to Safiri's frozen face. Every fiber of her being fought against her invisible binds to try and tear that offending paw right off. Jarshan's regret suddenly resurfaced. _Why did you have to choose him, Safiri? I would have provided for you and our hatchlings, I would have treated you like a queen- _

_In case you haven't noticed, I already am a Queen, _Safiri broke in bluntly. _Eridor beat you fairly for my attention, just as he defeated Vanilor for his crown. _Her mind engulfed her mate's, drowning him with all of the love that would never see the morning's light. _And I will never, ever regret my decision._

Jarshan lowered his head, revealing bone-white fangs as he did so. _Fair enough. _

Eridor's will broke. He whimpered like a hatchling calling for its mother, hopelessly thrashing against the binding spell as he groped against his brother's mind. _Jarshan, brother, please! Not her! Not her! Not my Safiri-_

Jarshan's claws raked hard and fast across his face. Paralyzed as the King of the dragons was, his pain receptors hadn't been dulled in the slightest. _Selfish dog! As if I would let her suffer __**your **__death!_

Quick as lightning, the gray dragon struck, his teeth burrowing deep into Safiri's exposed throat. Jarshan withdrew just as swiftly, a stream of scarlet following. The blood-splattered she-dragon was suddenly released from her enchantment, blindly kicking for a moment before finally falling still. Eridor could only watch in horror as his life-mate's luminous blue eyes glazed over with the finality of death. Her wondrous mind was suddenly extinguished like a candle before the winter wind, leaving a gaping void in his heart that brilliant soul had once occupied.

Safiri; his Queen, the mother of his children, the other half of his heart... was dead.

His anguish needed no roar; across Alagaesia, every single dragon clutched at their Eldunari in sudden shared agony.

Manic with grief and hatred, Eridor struggled against his bonds with renewed vigor. _Coward! Traitor! MURDERER!_

Jarshan said nothing. He tenderly brushed Safiri's face for a final time, a claw lingering over her eyelids before gently guiding them shut.

_Blood and bones! _Eridor shrieked. _You shall rule over naught but blood and bones! With Aiedail as my witness, as a witness to your betrayal, no wild dragon shall follow you! Your only power shall be over their corpses!_

Had the King of the dragons not been so lost in his madness, perhaps he would have noticed the twinge of guilty unease from his brother's mind. Jarshan turned pensively to the outside. _Hm, it is sunset, I hadn't noticed. Rather symbolic, isn't it? This nightmare is almost over. A new dawn is on the horizon, one where dragons rule over dragons and men over men. Too bad you won't get to see it._

Eridor flicked his own gaze to the entrance of the cave, to a distant dawn he knew he'd never see. The stars were appearing overhead, silent sentinels to the mortal treachery below, the souls of so many fallen ancestors waiting to welcome him into their ranks.

Eridor just glimpsed a star he was certain had not been present the night before. This newcomer shone brighter than the others, and to a dragon's sensitive eyes, seemed haloed in a shade of unmistakable blue. _Safiri..._

All of his burning rage suddenly seemed to melt away. The King of the wild dragon looked upon his certain doom with something that went far beyond calm acceptance. _You're wrong, Jarshan. Dawn shall come, and I shall be the one to bring it. I shall return, and I shall remember my vow. Safiri, our clan, our entire kind shall be avenged with your blood. And... I shall be the one to bring it to them._

Jarshan snapped. He struck with a viper's speed, spilling his own blood upon the ground. Jaws stained red with incriminating betrayal, the gray dragon recoiled from his own masterpiece, limbs trembling with adrenaline and barely-restrained hysteria.

King Eridor Bluefire, son of Vanilor and Ocurni, was dead. Free of his invisible bonds, the white dragon lay lifelessly on the floor. Even in death, his glazed-over eyes stared past his brother to the distant stars. How small he looked, so vulnerable and broken-

Formora calmly stepped in, surveying the carnage thoughtfully. Her angular features contorted into a sneer. "I take it you didn't get their Eldunarya."

Jarshan snarled, the ridge on his neck rising warningly. _Safiri is among the stars, where she belongs. And as for my late brother... don't be tempted by the power he once wielded. He would have overrode your defenses in a heartbeat and strangled the sanity out of you._

The elf sniffed, gracefully making her way through the gore and to Safiri's cooling corpse. "You only say that because you're afraid your own _royal _power would be jeopardized. To the victor belong the spoils, do they not?" Formora knelt down, wrenching the single green-shelled egg she could spot from its mother's last embrace. "Only a single egg? I had only thought the wild dragons were being stringent with the Riders over the past few years."

_We suffer from this strange blight just as much as your pets do, elf. Take it or leave it. _Jarshan glanced outside, trying to ignore the accusing stars as he scanned the skies. _My kin will feel this disturbance soon enough. It will be a long while before they calm down and accept their new King._

"And usurper." Tucking the single egg under her arm, Formora strode back to her dragon without a backwards glance.

The new King of the wild dragons lingered. Unwillingly, his eyes were riveted to two bloodied and battered forms as if he expected them to suddenly start breathing again. But this was no dream, no nightmare; Safiri's eyes would never open again, and Eridor had nowhere else to look but to the stars. After what felt like lifetimes, Jarshan turned away and left their cooling corpses to decay.

Yet, even as the two dragons slipped, one a usurper and another the bonded of a traitor, stealthily into the night, all of Alagaesia became aware of their crimes. Wild dragons everywhere clutched at their heart of hearts and _screamed _at the loss of something almost as important as their own life-mate. Even those bonded to Riders, who lacked such a primordial connection to their King, trembled fiercely and fought the urge to roar.

King Eridor and his queen had long since gone cold when a dragon finally arrived to personally confirm the inconceivable, and to discover Jarshan's stale scent all over the cave. However, no one else needed to know about what she had discovered beneath Safiri's corpse.

Elsewhere, the eldest of the royal couple's surviving sons and daughters gathered in the Spine with the oldest and wisest members of their kind. United for the last time in their grief and fury, the wild dragons funneled their combined magics into one last potent strike. Killing Galbatorix or any of his Forsworn was beyond their raw power. So was harming Jarshan, a fellow son of the mighty King Vanilor, protected from their wrath by his own royal blood.

But, where the humans and the elves were out of reach, their dragons were _not. _Let such murderers oath-breakers suffer the loss of a part of their soul, to feel the mind of their bonded partner wither and die as the nameless bastards they were as the inside. Let those treacherous dragons die as mere _beasts._

Then, those who shared blood viciously turned against each other. There was a power vacuum to be filled, and any royal dragon worth their crown of horns would dare to fill it. Like wolves, the Forsworn were always there to pounce upon the weak. In their insufferable pride, no one noticed when their kith and kin started vanishing in the middle of the night, their nests found scattered and blood-spattered.

With no one around to _make _the wild dragons listen, Vrael found himself facing rebellion and outright anarchy in even the remotest parts of the Spine and Beor Mountains. And not a single un-bonded dragon trusted the Riders anymore; not after their enchantments failed to have saved Eridor, not after having granted Galbatorix such devastating power in the first place, and certainly not for ancient mistakes they stubbornly refused to forget.

Tensions erupted between wild and bonded for the last time. Further divided, neither side stood a chance as the scavengers slowly closed in.

Up above, the stars watched the unfurling disaster with their usual apathy.

So engrossed in their woes, no one below noticed the shining blue-haloed newcomer celestial ranks... or the even larger star right beside it that burned the purest white, both patiently waiting out a night both were certain was finite.

**2/25/12 EDIT (continued): Older readers may notice Jarshan is a lot less of a one-dimensional, insane villain in this prelude. He -gasp- actually ****_believes _****he's doing the right thing (for reasons yet to be fully explained) and was remorseful for brutally killing two innocents. On the bad side, this whole incident also puts him closer to the brink. Things are flowing smoother, though I am afraid the preludes may still get corny XD.**

**Spoilers for ****_Inheritance:_****This story was written years before the last book came out, folks. The green dragon (often called Greeni by nerds such as myself) was open for interpretation. In Paolini's universe, the dragon became Firnen, Arya's dragon and Saphira's temporary mate (big surprise -.-'.) Mavalis, whose egg Formora took, ****_is _****that egg for this story, and is a COMPLETELY different character than Firnen. Or else things would just get kinda gross...**

**Also, notice how without a unifying power to smooth things over, the wild dragons fell into ****_civil war. _****No one's getting along with the Riders anymore. Things had been strained for a while, if you notice why Jarshan rebelled. So that one big effort to save all those Eldunarya and dragon eggs and hide them in Vroengard? Yeah, my Vroengard is kinda infested with something completely non-dragon.**


	2. Prelude 2: Rebirth Updated

**If any of you spammed with constant updates for this story... yeah, that was my fault. I kept trying to add asterisks into the updated chapter names before realizing FF wouldn't let me. Updated chapters will not simply be labeled so.**

**2/25/12 Update: Edited for flowing issues and characterization changes. Detailed explanations on bottom of page. Please remember to keep in mind some information won't mesh with the last two books of the Cycle.**

**Disclaimer: ****_The Inheritance Cycle _****does not belong to me. If so, it would have been kept a trilogy, because ****_Brinsigr _****and ****_Inheritance _****could have been totally combined into one last brick of a book. All material you don't recognize as Paolini's belongs to me.**

The city of Doru Araeba may have been currently untouched by the chaos breaking out on mainland Alagaesia, but its inhabitants were anything but relaxed. More Riders than usual were patrolling the capital's outskirts, on the watch for anything suspicious as they did their best to keep within sight and mental contact of one another.

It had been several weeks since a distraught daughter of King Eridor and Queen Safiri had confirmed the both of their horrifying murders. Dragon Riders that had investigated the scene had discovered the royal couple had been magically incapacitated at the time of their deaths. Their fatal injuries, while dragon-made, were too clean to have been inflicted in a fair fight. The scent of Jarshan, one of Eridor's nestmates, had been fresh all over the cave. None of his surviving siblings had seen him since.

Wild theories abounded about the unbelievable tragedy. Those too proud to admit a wild dragon had willingly betrayed his own brother suggested that Jarshan had been captured by the Forsworn. With the location of Eridor's hiding place tortured out of him, he had been dragged there to witness the murders and then hauled off again to serve as a valuable hostage. Others were not so oblivious: Jarshan had betrayed his own flesh and blood for a power that would make him rival the Dragon Riders, and they now bellowed for his blood.

Vervada personally bet on the latter. She herself had witnessed the devastating power known as the King's Wrath when Vanilor had ruthlessly slaughtered pack of Lethrblaka that had been preying on younger dragons. Power of such _godlike _proportions could have driven even the most loyal companion mad with ambition.

The dark violet-scaled dragon shifted uncomfortably in her nest. She had been assigned to the nursery, a dragon-hold exclusively for expectant mothers or for those with un-bonded eggs and hatchlings.

Vervada couldn't say she liked her accommodations. The intricately-carved walls were a far cry from the rough sides of her own cave, marked with the scratch-marks of hatchlings who had first sharpened their claws and horns under her watchful gaze. The straw-filled bowl she rested in couldn't have been more different than the nest she had personally carved out stone with her life-mate. Fleetingly she wished herself back _home_, to the cave that had been hers since her first ever brood, with Magorian at her side.

But Magorian, her cherished life-mate, was dead and gone. He had been so for months now. And their cave, where Vervada had laid her eggs for years, was no longer safe. Dragons in the area had been disappearing in alarming numbers, their rotting corpses left behind broken and battered.

Magorian himself had been one of the first casualties of the Forsworn attacks. They had chosen to live outside of the stifling company of a clan. When Vervada had woken up in the dead of night, clutching at her heart of hearts and screaming her grief to the heavens, she realized the price they had paid for such freedom from clan obligations.

From what she could piece together from the memories of the animals that had witnessed Magorian's death, her mate had been ambushed by a red-scaled dragon no more than several years old. Despite Magorian's superior size and strength, the red dragon's Rider had sealed his fate. When his wings had been magically broken, he had purposefully crashed head-first rather than try to land and fight. Better that he ascend to the stars as a free spirit than be bound to his Eldunari like so many others.

Sometimes Vervada wished her will had been weaker, that her mate's death could have resulted in her own, or that she had willingly flung herself into the abyss like he had so defiantly done. Yet Vervada was the Storm-Cleaver, a she-dragon who had thrown herself into the fiercest gales and thunderclouds in her rebellious youth. Her life, even without her cherished Magorian, would be hers to fight for until the bitter end.

When a Rider's dragon had dared to come amongst his wild fellows at the beginning of the mating season, single females had greeted his courtship attempts with bared fangs and blazing plumes of fire. But the male had been tenacious, continuing to present gifts of prey that would be flung to the scavengers, meeting older and more experienced challengers that chased him off with news scars, and all without bringing his Rider with him for protection.

Vervada had admired Iormungr's recklessness. Such daring could _almost _make her believe he was as wild as herself. When he had held her own against her in a fair fight, she had accepted his advances. Why not? Her children by Magorian were all grown and gone, dead or with families and troubles of their own. She had no siblings, no clan, to draw upon for company and comfort.

Iormungr could never hope to fill the hole Magorian had left behind, but his presence meant Vervada no longer woke up crying the name of her first precious mate, or found herself hovering over the dark seas and wondering what was keeping her from slipped into the dark depths and joining him. Iomungr was gentle and caring, and loved her as much as he ever could. With a Rider first and foremost in his mind, and a dead dragon in Vervada's, they had fulfilled the other's desires to a point that worked for them.

Vervada glanced down at the single egg in her tender embrace. Its shell was a beautiful shade of sapphire blue, close to the same shade of its father's, and contained a lively little female.

That egg also happened to be her first live one in seasons.

The violet she-dragon craned her head to glance at her _other _eggs. These reeked of decay, the offspring inside dead before they were even laid. Vervada wished she could blame her lingering grief over Magorian on this horrible tragedy, the sudden and agonizing loss of her King while her eggs had been developing.

_But no, _she mused to herself, pushing the lifeless shells of failed life away, _I am only one of many in this position._

Each nesting season had seemed to bring fewer live eggs into the world, fewer hatchlings that would survive to adulthood to start families of their own. Despite her and Magorian's valiant efforts, their couplings had not yielded a single live egg in years. Many she-dragons had not even conceived at all. Despite Doru Araeba's size, Vervada had the nursery entirely to herself.

Pushing the lifeless eggs away with her tail, Vervada halfheartedly glanced out toward the heavens. _As if any stars will fall to-_

Her sharp eyes just managed to glimpse the blue-ringed that fell from its heavenly perch with impossible speed, falling right towards Vroengard as it disintegrated against the blackness of the night sky.

The unborn female shifted violently in her egg, her crude mind strongly pushing up against Vervada's. Just as quickly, she stilled.

Her mother gaped down, searching her daughter's mind long and hard for a trace of the familiar soul she was certain had just fell to earth. _My Queen, is that you?_

Only the familiar silence of an unborn dragon's consciousness answered her. Despite that, there was a strong undercurrent of familiarity to her mind, something Vervada detected only because the King and Queen of the wild dragons were tied so strongly to their subjects.

Queen Safiri Freyjasdaughter had been reborn.

Vervada raised her head up at the sudden scraping of scales on stone. _Hello, Iormungr._

Even by fickle wild dragon standards, Iormungr was a fine male. He was broad and powerful, with scales a shade of blue just lighter than his new daughter's. But there was a very un-dragonlike aura about him, from the way he held his head to the gentleness and naive outlook on life that could be found only in the mind of one bonded to a human being. A leather saddle still clung to his back, evidence he had only quickly stopped to let Katalya off before arriving.

_A messenger reported you had started to lay. I came as quick as I-_

Iormungr got one good look at the misborn eggs just as he inhaled the stench of decay. He keened sorrowfully, taking a few indecisive steps forward, torn between touching them and recoiling in horror. _Our... eggs. Are all of them like..._

Vervada silently nosed the single surviving egg forward. Her mate immediately rushed forward, cradling the egg in one paw as he gazed upon it lovingly.

_A daughter, _he whispered in awe. _I have a daughter._

The tenderness of the moment soon faded for Vervada. Sooner or later Iormungr would ask what fate should befall their egg. Should their daughter hatch on her time and live however she chose, or be giving up to the Order to one day choose a Rider of her own?

It was very obvious what her mate's opinion on the matter would be. Iormungr had been fretting over things for _months. _Galbatorix's Forsworn were steadily cutting down the Riders themselves, and there was just not enough eggs to replenish their shrinking ranks. How many other she-dragons had Vervada shared this nursery with before they had steadily moved out, having either laid their eggs prematurely or having only dead ones? Iormungr himself had admitted to her that only _one _egg was left in all of Doru Araeba: many courtiers had been discovered murdered and their precious cargo shattered by magic, and even more wild dragon mothers had demanded the bonding spells be lifted and their eggs returned.

Once, Vervada would have bared her fangs at the thought of forsaking any of her eggs. Any decision she made about it would be final, for she was their actual mother. Her and Magorian had one simple philosophy: Riders' dragons eggs became Riders' dragons and wild dragon eggs stayed wild.

But Magorian was dead now, one of many victims of an enemy that preyed viciously upon their kind. Vervada had abandoned her territory for fear of her own life. The Riders sorely needed new recruits to refresh their ranks. So long as her daughter remained in the safety of a group, who was to say she wouldn't be safer amongst powerful magicians and far larger dragons?

_My Queen, _Vervada murmured privately to the spirit she was so certain slumbered inside her daughter's egg. _Out of all possible clutches, you chose to be reborn as the only viable egg on all of Vroengard. I think you have made your intentions quite clear, and I shall follow orders._

She had no true idea why Safiri had chosen to be reborn in such chaotic times, or why she had abandoned her mate to fall from the stars and return as a Rider's dragon, but Vervada did not question this unspoken command. Eridor had chosen his Queen for a reason, and Vervada was not one to doubt both of their judgments.

_Take her, _Vervada muttered to her mate.

Iormungr blinked in disbelief. Undoubtedly he was wondering why such a proud she-dragon would give up her only daughter of the brood without a fight. _But-_

She cut him off with a growl that brooked no argument. _You and I both know the wild dragons are being slaughtered out there. I will not subject our daughter to Magorian's fate._

The Rider's dragon looked bewilderingly down at the sapphire egg. _Should we name her?_

_No. In time, she shall choose her own name. I very much doubt our daughter would allow her Rider to call her something demeaning. _Vervada couldn't help her hoarse, rumbling chuckle. _She has inherited my good taste, after all._

Finally, Iormungr bowed his head, tenderly picking the egg up in his jaws. _The Dragon Riders and I thank you for your contribution._

As her second mate flew away into the silent night, Vervada knew in her heart of hearts that egg would be the last she would ever bear. But, even though her daughter's loyalties would first and foremost belong to a Rider, she would be _safe. _

The violet she-dragon climbed to her paws, hurling herself from the nursery and her dead eggs and into the cool night air. Vervada snapped her wings open at the last possible second, heaving herself against gravity's fatal embrace to go soaring into the stars. Under her deafening roar came the frightened yelps of several Riders as they tumbled out of bed.

What else was left now that her daughter's future was secured? There would be no hatchlings to raise come springtime. Iormungr's devotion for Katalya was above all else. His time would be spent protecting his comrades from the Forsworn and finding their daughter a worthy Rider of her own. Vervada would return then, to make sure her child grew up with a proper dragon's dignity.

For the near future, there was nothing but the rugged mountains of the Spine. Places where not even the Forsworn would dare to tread, sons and daughters to check up on, countless other distant kith and kin that may already be among-

The stars above were suddenly blotted out in a lethal shadow of ragged wings and ivory claws that gleamed in the moonlight. Not even the Storm-Cleaver stood a fighting chance when Shruikan's fangs dug in.

* * *

The black sky was just beginning to lighten, the very first hint of the approaching dawn. The remaining stars (oh, how few there were left now) were fading before the light of the rising sun. However, one star, far brighter and radiant than its fellows, continued to sparkle. At the first rays of daylight it only began to shine ever brighter.

Far below the lightening sky, in a small cottage bordering the wild mountains of the Spine, came agonized screams and shouted curses. The shrieks continued to grow in strength as the stars retreated for the day.

Finally, just as the sun itself cleared the horizon, a final scream pierced the air. At this concluding cry, the brilliantly white star fell from its place in the heavens just as the last of its comrades vanished. Even as it dissipated, its radiant essence aimed right for the cottage. Had any wild dragons been left to witness the event, they would silently welcomed an ancestor back to earth as all trace of the star vanished from view.

The first wailing of a baby followed immediately.

* * *

With her light brown hair a tangled mess and her sweat-soaked skin unnaturally pale, Selena looked like a nightmare. However, nothing could dampen her radiant beam. Brown eyes watering, she gazed tenderly down at the newborn that slumbered peacefully in her arms.

Oh, how precious her child looked, how much he reminded her of an infant Murtagh. So what if he was red and wrinkled, strained just as much from that difficult birth as she was? He already had a tiny tuft of light brown hair that would no doubt thicken and darken with age. Regardless of his dubious paternity, he was _her _child, one she would bite off Galbatorix's head for to protect.

Despite the joy of welcoming new life into the world, the birth was bittersweet. As much as she wanted to, Selena could not stay. She had been missing from Morzan's estate for five months, and undoubtedly he was still hunting her. With he and his dragon away, Selena would quickly return to grab Murtagh and finally bring him to the safety of Garrow and Marian's small cottage. She would leave tomorrow, to reunite with both of her precious sons as soon as possible.

"Oh, what a handsome little lad he is!" Marian cooed even as she clutched her son tighter. Roran, only two and a half years old, gurgled happily and reached a pudgy out to his new cousin. "I have no doubt he'll become quite the lady killer."

Selena smiled knowingly. "Perhaps," she allowed. _And I have no doubt of it. Morzan had his own brutally handsome looks, the commanding presence that made a ruthless killer to please him. And, even grayed and bearded, Brom had a certain appeal to him._

To this day, Selena had no idea about why she had fallen so hard for the _rebel agent _that had been posing as a _gardener. _She had simply clicked with Brom on a primal level that beyond _anything _she had felt for Morzan. No blackmail, torture, or murder had been necessary to please Brom. When they could both let their masks off, they needed only to be themselves to feel content. Brom had valued her opinion and input on his plans, had taken the time to listen to her own never-ending list of troubles, had been tender in ways Morzan could never express.

_Well, up until I showed him my preferences._

When her sons were safe and secure, she vowed to find out what had happened to Brom, and rekindle that impossibly-fulfilling relationship.

Her newborn stirred fitfully. Selena opened her mind to him, sending him soothing visions of the calm seas and sky, her own happy memories of Murtagh laughing gleefully as she made funny faces toward him. Working better than rocking or a lullaby ever could, the memories soothed the newborn back to peaceful stillness.

_You need a name, and a special one at that. Your father, whomever he is, was once one of Vrael's Dragon Riders. Surely one of their sons needs to be called by something he can be proud of!_

As a response, the infant yawned and blearily blinked open his eyes. They were startlingly blue, and seemed to glow with a radiant light all their own. Selena couldn't help the shiver that traveled down her spine. Set into her son's newborn face was the gaze of a weary and wise old man.

Those eyes were not the ice-blue of Morzan's, nor were they just as cold. But neither were those eyes Brom's warm sky-blue. Selena could only describe the impossible shade as the flame of magical blue fire Brom had once summoned for her. _No _newborn should have eyes like that.

Marian also noticed the oddness, but she was far from concerned. "All babies have blue eyes, Selena. Not to worry; he'll likely wind up with brown eyes just like yours."

"Aye," Selena whispered distantly, unable to wrench her gaze away from her child's. "Brown eyes. Just like mine."

Murtagh had also changed to brown eyes, and true to Marian's claims, they had eventually turned to a shade of brown. But even then his eyes had been dark blue, nowhere close to his little brother's inhuman shade.

The newborn stared unblinkingly up at her, head cocked quizzically to the side as he studied her each and every move. Selena stared just as intensely back, mesmerized by his timeless eyes. His vaguely familiar, awe-inspiring, timeless eyes...

Oh, she was almost positive she had seen these eyes before. Back before (before what?), when she had been younger, far younger than she was now. She had been hiding with someone infitely precious to her, straining just to catch a _glimpse _of **_him _**before-

Selena swayed alarmingly to the left, and it was only by an inhuman force of will that she kept upright, her arms never once loosening from around her son.

"You should lie down, dear." Marian set Roran down, anxiously coming toward the bed. "The birth was difficult. You lost quite a bit of blood and you really shouldn't be pushing-"

"I'm fine," Selena said in a curt tone far too close to her own terrifying tone as Morzan's lapdog, the irritability only further surfacing when Marian had tried to take her son away. "Just let me think of a name. A worthy name..."

Before all else, her thoughts turned to the names of those who had been ancient legend long before her grandparents had been born. _Such an old soul deserves an old, noble name. You're lucky Brom taught me so much of the days before the King. Hm... Roslarb is far too humiliating, Roran would beat you up right now if I called you Galzra, and Vrael just sounds stuffy._

Thoughtfully, Selena glanced out the window. Dawn was breaking, setting the sky alight in brilliant hues of flame. Inspiration suddenly struck.

_What was that first Rider's name? Erik? No, it was longer. Errikin, Erikor? Erid- Ah, __**Eragon**__! It was he who ended the ancient war with the dragons, my son, and helped to create the pact responsible for your existence. I trust you will do your namesake justice._

Her newborn blinked, almost as if considering the name's worthiness. She almost expected him to comment on it, but he only yawned and closed his eyes. Sleeping, he looked just like any other baby.

Selena smiled tenderly, stroking his cheek with a finger. "Eragon. His name is Eragon."

"Hm," Marian mused, picking a wriggling Roran back up as she mouthed the word to herself. "A strange name, but an oddly fitting one."

The two women conversed for a while about their children, at least until Selena paled alarmingly and was finally talked into handing her baby to her sister-in-law.

Unbeknownst to either of them, the fire in Eragon's eyes spluttered out as the force Selena had mistaken for an epiphany willingly slipped into oblivion.

Mere days later, the servants of Morzan's estate would discover their mistress on the doorsteps delirious with fever. By her soaked clothes, it was painfully apparent that Lady Selena had refused to seek shelter from the torrential rainstorms.

Exhaustion and sickness would soon take their toll. In the end, the healers would be forced to drug Selena to prevent her from harming herself and others from accidentally lashing out with her magic. Let it be said that she struggled against the inevitable to the bitter end, screaming for her children and Brom even as her lucidity faded in and out.

With her last breath, the servants had witnessed her trying to plead for something. Her relief, her revenge? Galbatorix couldn't have cared less; for Murtagh, the only son of two such brutally effective individuals, soon came into his unchallenged custody.

Elsewhere, as Selena exhaled for the last time, a newborn wailed his grief for the stormy skies. Marian did her best to comfort little Eragon, for most infants hated the roar of thunder, and again wondered where his absent mother had run off to.

**On egg shortage: That "last" egg mentioned by Iormungr was Thorn's. His and Saphira's were the only ones left by the time Galby rolled around. Why? That mysterious shortage of eggs, with fewer viable ones laid each nesting season, makes wild dragons far more likely to hold onto their eggs. Add in the number of young Riders and dragons slaughtered by the Forsworn back then, anxious mothers demanding the return of their children, and those eggs smashed in between city transfers, and the already-limited supply takes a sharp down turn. More on this later.**

**Dragon souls: As said in _Eldest, _wild dragons weren't all that big on lying. Yet when their dead ancestors rose to the skies to become stars? Yeah, the skeptical Riders are gonna doubt that. Rebirth was usually marked by a falling star. Traditional wild mothers would watch the skies after laying a new clutch to see if an ancestor chose to be reborn amongst their clutch (a great honor.)**

**These reborn dragons are only _part _of another sentient soul, like one of those little angels or devils on your shoulder. Dragons subconsciously impact their host's choices throughout their entire life. It is no coincidence on how many reborn souls receive names eerily similar to that of their past selves. Death separates the souls. Depending on whether the dragon-soul was a good or bad influence, it either returns to the stars or somewhere far less pleasant. Having developed into its own independent soul, this "reincarnation" stands a chance of going to the stars if it was a dragon. A reincarnation of another kind? Eh, to wherever those other souls go ;).**


	3. Prelude 3: Glimpses Updated

**3/25 Update: Real life is a pain in the gludius maximus. That... and the fact that I rediscovered how much I loved a certain online game- with ****_dragons _****:D. Plot for this one is again basically the same, only with the Rider prejudice removed.**

**Disclaimer: ****_The Inheritance_**** Cycle, from its dwarves to its dragons,belongs to Chris Paolini. All original material you don't recognize from such belongs to me.**

Enveloped in the comforting darkness of her egg, the dormant she-dragon one day to be known as Saphira Bjartskular felt something vaguely resembling contentment. She had no concept of time, for she existed outside of it, unchanging and eternal for so long as she remained unhatched. Safe from the ravages of time and the strange infinity that engulfed her own little world, she slumbered on through the ages.

The only sign of an outside, proof that her reality was only a miniscule fragment of truth, were the minds that came and went. And she remembered each and every single one of them. Why would she not? The constrictive confines of her universe didn't even allow her to move. Those brief contacts from an outside she was too fearful to enter were all the stimulation her mind had.

First and foremost had been the consciousness she instinctively knew as _Mother. _Mother had cherished her as all mothers did their broods, willing to throw her own life away for the well-being of one egg. The little she-dragon sensed her dam was stranger than most.

Words could not resonate with a mind that had no understanding of language. She who was one day to be called Saphira had far preferred the wonderfully complex emotions sent across their link. Only _'Safiri' _had held her attention for the briefest of moments before she too had dismissed it. What use was the past to a creature untouched by time? What use was a mother who had not visited her egg in the longest time?

Then there had been _Father. _He had shared Mother's love for her, and loved Mother in a completely different way, but even they paled in comparison to the loyalty and affections he felt for his _Rider._

Something had been done to her egg. Ancient magic once used to bind two warring races together thrummed through every fiber of being. What had once been a question of having nourishment and security was now simply waiting for a destined _Rider _of her own.

Hundreds of minds had been presented to her, their intentions and most secret desires hers to bring forth. She had rejected countless candidates for their greed in craving godlike power, their arrogance in thinking her a mindless beast to be controlled, their tendency to deceive their own loved ones for their own personal gain, a thousand other innate flaws of mankind she could not tolerate tied to her heart and soul.

Even with her meticulous standards, potential Riders had been left. Their dedication, valiance, humility; a thousand _virtues _she would not mind influencing her decisions. Each and every single one of those precious few could have gone down as noble legends.

Each and every single one, she had still rejected.

The little she-dragon found all hopefuls lacked _something _she craved for in return. Only the slightest bit of impossible memory remained imprinted on her newborn soul, a warmth not even the most articulate could define. Whatever had been forgotten, she wanted it back, and would wait out the centuries for that _completeness _to return. Her resolve remained unwavering even as the wave of potentials came in ever greater numbers, their fear and mounting desperation tainting all other admirable qualities.

Oh, even then, she knew a dark storm had been looming just on the horizon. Unlike the others, however, she had the blissful oblivion inside her own private haven to retreat to.

Deaf to the pleas and pressures of the outside world, the little she-dragon slumbered on.

She did not awaken until Father's brilliant presence was smothered, his last conscious seconds spent screaming for his Rider. Others; dragon, elf, and human alike, all cried out in the same fear, agony, defiance. Eventually, all were silenced.

Her attempts to return to slumber were always rudely interrupted by harsh minds that sharply prodded her back into semi-awareness. She did her best to throw them off, instinctively knowing a _blood-traitor's _Rider when she felt one. For the first time, that vague yearning for something more became outright defiance in hatching for those that had slaughtered her kith and kin. Something unique to her un-hatched soul had truly emerged.

Excepting the stream of unacceptable potentials, she had little constant companionship. Mad _Shruikan _ranted and raved to himself, a prisoner to a master who wanted only to see her mother monsters just like him. His _Forsworn _and their beasts had gradually diminished over the decades, but the she-dragon had felt something vaguely like satisfaction when _Formora _had stopped appearing.

The two other eggs in her presence slumbered whenever she was awake. The older of the two males had always been extraordinarily picky, and had refused hatching for fickle reasons entirely unknown to her. Something was simply _different _about the younger. Unbeknown to their captors, _Mavalis _had been long-since dormant, never once stirring for a single possible Rider. For him, it was not a question who, but _when..._

When her surroundings yet again shifted, and with even more strangers to passively observe, the not-yet-Saphira had found herself apathetic toward another new generation of aspiring Riders. Her vague memory of _something _had vanished entirely as of late, and like Mother and Father and countless others, seemed highly unlikely to ever return. Falling back into dormancy, she awakened only very rarely at the insistence of a pushy candidate, and just as harshly rejected them.

Until the she-dragon was once more roused by an explosion and a collision that rammed her head into the shell of her egg.

Time suddenly became real, a hazy past and a distant future that veered off on crossroads she could no longer see. Yet the present was everywhere and everything; the overwhelming darkness, the cramped limbs, the hammering of a heart eager to embrace the wild unknown.

Mere moments later, young hands pressed against the confines of her now-prison, and the she-dragon stirred in familiarity. He was softer now, without his regal majesty, but his heart of hearts was undeniable.

At long last, she had found her _something, _her _Eridor, _and nothing could ever part them again.

* * *

Like a rat, Eragon was trapped in a narrow alley, with certain death advancing upon him. The two Urgals, weapons raised, had eyes that glittered with a predator's ruthless anticipation for the end of an easy hunt. Against such killers his bow and arrows were laughable toys.

On the outside, his brown eyes desperately searched for an escape. Could he dodge between the Urgals and make it back to Brom? Not without being skewered. Were the walls climbable? For something with claws or wings.

On the inside, a deep and secret part of Eragon's mind remained un-possessed by panic. He did not have the cowardice to flee, nor the common sense to even consider it a choice.

_**He had been younger back then, itching for independence and inflated with an adolescent's reckless **__**cockiness. How could Father dare keep him contained within family territory like an overgrown hatchling? How could Mother continue to baby him?**_

**The borders had called to him with false promises of freedom and adventure, and away he had flown for it, like an idiot. The low-lying clouds had refused to dissipate, and like a blind idiot, away he had shattered his leg and tore his wing.**

**The painful collision with solid rock had been anything but freedom. Crippled and far beyond familiar landmarks, he hadn't been proud enough to avoid crying for his parents like a lost hatchling. His plaintive calls and the scent of fresh blood had been the siren song for a pack of horse-sized Shrrg. Such monstrous wolves had found a delicacy in young dragons, and one completely unable to fight back or flee must have been a buffet.**

**Like any good child of King Vanilor, he had snarled in the face of certain death, and hoped his clan would discover some mutilated mongrels alongside his half-eaten corpse.**

**With this thought, something hot and heavy had begun to build up inside him. It had consumed his fear and hopelessness, leaving only new-found strength to surge into his weary limbs. Instinctively opening his jaws, he had unleashed his first ever breath of fire upon his enemies. He had reeled back in shock at the burst of the distinctive blazing blue distinctive of his line, but had kept it up even as the air filled with yelps and whimpers.**

**Father had discovered him injured and aching, but alive, gnawing on one of the charred corpses of his kills to try and make a meal out of it.**

Eragon inhaled and exhaled slowly, half-expecting to see flames on his breath. An incredible inferno was building up inside, one he was certain would consume him if he contained it for too long.

The Urgals faltered, suddenly sensing a sharp change in the air, like mounting energy for a lightning bolt. They suspiciously eyed their prey, realizing how his brown eyes had so strikingly changed colors. Two orbs of blazing blue glared straight back at them, alight with hatred and... triumph?

_No. More. Death._

Eragon raised his bow, a word jumping unbidden to his lips.

_"Brisingr!"_

Crackling with azure light, the arrow flew toward his targets. With razor-sharp precision, it collided with an Urgal's forehead, radiant energy exploding out on impact. The wreath of fire eagerly devoured the other threat as it spread outward, passing harmlessly over its winded summoner before dissipating against the walls of the alley.

Eragon groaned, suddenly swooning as his feet as the fiery power evaporated, leaving him feeling as if he had run for an entire day without rest. Unbeknown to him, the brilliant blue of his eyes dimmed back to a dull and watery brown. Knees buckling, the young man still little more than a child laid back against the alley-walls, and prostrated himself before fate's nonsensical twists and turns.

Within, the exhausted part of the soul that still belonged to Eridor Vanilorsson retreated deep into a dormant state, determined to not stir again for a _very _long time.

* * *

Brushing brown wisps of her curly mane away from her ageless face, Angela smirked knowingly at the fortunes of fickle fate spread out before her. She lightly touched the ancient bones with delicate fingers topped with criminally-sharp nails painted a venomous shade of green. Perhaps it was just a trick of the hazy firelight (perfect for creating an air of mystique and disarming skeptical customers), but the herbalist's hazel eyes flashed inhuman green for the briefest of moments.

"Well, well, well," she murmured. "Turns out you weren't a complete waste of my time, little Eragon."

Solembum nimbly leaped up onto the table, glancing casually down at what had once been the knuckle bones of an ancient she-dragon. _Of course not, _he purred smugly. _Werecats don't show themselves to just anyone, you know. Had our little guest been only a __**mere **__Dragon Rider, I wouldn't have wasted my time._

Angela rolled her eyes, flicking one of the werecat's ears. "Oh, don't be so persnickety, Solembum. How often do you see Riders around anymore?"

_I was kitted during the Order's prime, Angela. I could go the rest of my very long life without seeing another Rider and die happy. They all got to be so __**boring **__after the first few centuries._

"Even Alagaesia's last hope of deliverance?"

_Other eggs that could be freed, better Riders that could be chosen. Honestly, why did the she-dragon have to go with the thickest farm-boy this side of the Spine?_

"Bone calls to bone, solemn-one, and a soul can recognize a kindred spirit across the vast echoes of space and time. These old bones o' mine haven't failed me yet." Angela's impish grin widened at her companion's flat stare. "Don't tell me your eyesight is going in your old age."

_Who helped you set up shop here in the first place, pointed out Teirm was your best chance of finding others? _Solembum demanded testily. _You wanted to plop down right in Urubaen, and get yourself beheaded in front of the entire damned city for witchcraft. Don't tell me you could have ever found that old man if I hadn't pointed him out for you, or that woman without my agreement!_ The witch hid her cackle as a cough when the werecat's fur started bristling. _That __**brat **__was probably only a hatchling that got himself swooped up by a hawk minutes out of the egg, or a cocky yearling who accidentally killed himself for trying to impress a pretty female-_

With hands deft from countless years of swindling, Angela drew several more knuckle bones from her sleeve, tossing them with the others. "Honestly, Solembum, of _course _I never intended to show Eragon his entire future. That would just be cheating."

Solembum's crimson eyes narrowed as he crouched down to study the entire reading closer. _Impossible._

"Knowing wild dragons, just highly improbable. If any creature could so blatantly defy nature, I'd bet all my money on them." A pause. "And at least we know his future's far more interesting than dying valiantly in battle or slaying the tyrant king and living happily ever after with that royal little crush he's bound to meet."

Had Eragon not been so gullible, perhaps he would have seen more of the puzzle than what she had handed to him.

_The oak, the potential to live forever, or at least live a long and fulfilled life. The lightning bolt, the death of a loved one, more than one of them. The blossom, the love of a woman of noble birth, be it reciprocated or not. The tree and hawthorn root, betrayal from a family member, specifically by one considered a brother. The freedom to choose one's own destiny, a liberating and enslaving hand. _Solembum sniffed. _Nothing unexpected for an immortal Dragon Rider rubbing shoulders with powerful people and who will one day decide the fate of Alagaesia._

Vibrant-green nails gently tapped the truths Angela had chosen to keep secret. "A mirror," she mused. "Eragon's life shall strongly echo that of his past. Whether or not they'll suffer the same demise, though, I cannot say." Thoughtfully, she picked up the final piece of the puzzle. "What do you make of this?"

_A white orb in black? Bah, that's just the sign of a rebirth... only the bone doesn't say that._

"Black and white, coming together to create gray. Past and present colliding at unnatural levels. Will their strengths benefit the other, is one side doomed to fade away, or shall they remain in such a state forever?" Angela smirked, flipping the knuckle bone in her hand. "Knowing Eridor's stubbornness, I can't say for sure."

_The boy was a __**King? **__The__** final **__King of the wild dragons!_

"The once and future." Angela threw her revelations down to the table, suddenly looking down at a worthless pile of blank and yellowed bones.

The werecat sniffed. _And what do you mean by that?_

"I'm not exactly sure," the witch chirped brightly. "Can't have the whole story spoiled now. My life is boring enough as it is." She paused, the cheerfulness falling from her face. "But I _know _that clueless little boy was once King Eridor, and that his story will not merely end in triumph or tragedy over the Mad King."

_White and black..._

"Indeed," Angela muttered darkly. "Legend says Eridor vowed vengeance upon his murderer. We have our hero, but where's the villain?"

**Mavalis's Egg: I hope it made it quite clear that Mavalis's egg is different from Thorn's and Saphira's. Dragon magic works in mysterious ways, and obviously he doesn't have good memories of Galbatorix's lot...**

**Angela's Behavior: Is it really in Angela's nature to spoil someone's entire future when she could have a little fun with it? Or Solembum's? And, despite the books hinting she is somehow connected to the Gray Folk, Angela's past is quite different here...**


	4. Act I: Chapter 1: Rescue Updated

**3/25 Update: Updating in a small batch today :). Cut out quite a bit of useless dialogue, too, and hopefully made what remained more sincere.**

Soaring through low-lying clouds, Saphira remained unspotted by anyone in Dras-Leona. Not that this helped her two passengers. Despite their thick tunics and the heat she emanated, the freezing water droplets stuck to their skin and sapped them of warmth. When Roran had complained about conditions, Saphira had silenced all protests by calmly asking on whether he preferred joining Katrina in a cell to rescuing her.

Clutching the neck spike before him even tighter in anticipation, Eragon scanned the ground. Through the clouds, his hawk-like gaze detected the sprawling city below, and the even more distant swath of silvery-blue that was Leona Lake. Ahead loomed the black mountain of Helgrind, steadily growing larger and ever more imposing with each wing-beat.

Somewhere in that forsaken fortress was Katrina, the beloved Roran had not seen since her capture in Carvahall. In there with her were the Ra'zac, those who had robbed Eragon of his uncle and fatherly mentor, along with their demonic parents.

Long ago, Eragon had sworn vengeance on them for Uncle Garrow. It had been the catalyst toward truly beginning his destiny as a Dragon Rider. It had been the reason Brom had taken a dagger intended for him.

Sensing his anxiety, Saphira craned her head around, fixing one giant blue eye on her Rider. Her warm concern soothed the butterflies in his stomach. _Are you all right, little one?_

Eragon leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her powerful neck as best he could, keeping his words private so Roran wouldn't doubt his readiness. _I will be._

_The Ra'zac have robbed you of the two people you loved most in the world, Eragon. Your last encounter did not end well. _She paused at painful memories. _Are you worried?_

Eragon shook his head defiantly. _Back then I was weak. Too weak to save Garrow, too weak to save Brom. But I'm strong now, strong enough to kill their murders and the monsters that spawned them. I have magic that could do the job without me having to lay a finger on them, strong enough to heal all those in Helgrind the Ra'zac harmed. I have __**you, **__Saphira. This time I can win, and without the expense of someone else's life._

Beneath him Saphira hummed, the sound resonating deep into his heart and soul. _I am with you, little one, as always._

Eragon smiled at her before turning back to check at his cousin.

Roran was still clinging to him like a drowning man would a life-line, but he no longer stared down at the ground or muttered about the cold. His determined gaze never left Helgrind and one hand had subconsciously crept to his hammer. Eragon didn't need to read his mind to know his thoughts and fears.

"She's alive," he murmured softly. "Katrina is a valuable prisoner. Galbatorix would never allow her to die, not if it meant losing a hostage he could hold over me and Saphira. You'll see her again, Roran, very soon."

"Aye," Roran agreed, voice cracking with emotion. "Very soon. Still..." His brown eyes hardened. "You're not the only one with a bone to pick, Eragon. I want to crack the skulls of those bastards wide open."

"That is true," his cousin agreed carefully, "but you must run off and find Katrina the moment we land, before the Ra'zac discover you're here with us. She needs to be found quickly if... something goes wrong."

Spying Roran's mutinous look, Saphira butted in. _Peace, Roran. Brave and skilled you may be, but your need for vengeance is blinding your common sense! The Ra'zac have devoured tougher prey than you, and a hammer and all the love in the world can't change the fact they'll make you into dinner. Find and save your mate. She needs you far more than we do._

The young man's shoulders slumped in guilty defeat. "You're both right. Katrina is important now, not what happened in the past..."

Eragon grabbed his adopted brother by the arm, pointedly locking eyes with him. "Garrow was my father too, Roran, in all the ways that matter. I swear to you his death will not be in vain."

Saphira dove out the clouds, and for the first time Helgrind became clearly visible. Upon closer examination, Eragon realized the rock was entirely barren and devoid of caves or any other entrances. Saphira circled numerous times but even with three pairs of eyes scanning every inch of the black mountain, they were no closer to their rescue.

Frustration mounting, Eragon was just about to suggest smashing into the mountain and hoping for the best when something small caught his eye.

Concealed in the shadows was a little flower that bloomed precariously on a narrow crag. By all rights it should have never taken root there, defying the laws of nature by flourishing where no sunlight would ever reach it, yet there it stood.

"There!" Eragon pointed. "Unless flowers just like growing on evil mountains."

Saphira stopped circling, cupping her wings as she shifted into a hover. She and Roran followed his finger, gaping in disbelief at the unnatural flower.

"Impossible," Roran muttered. "How could a plant ever grow up here without soil and sunlight?"

_It has to be magic, _Saphira decided. _Perhaps a sign to a secret entrance?_

Eragon gripped his hawthorn staff tightly. It was no Zar'roc, but no other blade in the Varden's armory had felt quite right, and he had strengthened the wood with enchantments. Good enough for bashing a creature's head in.

Saphira landed on the narrow ledge that logically should have never fit her, but her head went right through what _looked _like solid rock. She gave a growl of surprise and trepidation, but padded onward as her passengers readied themselves for combat.

Inside the mountain now, Eragon looked around the cavern. Razor-sharp stalactites dangled dangerously from the ceiling that looked ready to impale an unsuspecting victim. Stalagmites rose up to join them, forming the jagged fangs of a monstrous maw ready to close down on all three of them. The only lightning came from the sunlight that streamed through magical illusion. Five small passageways stretched on into the darkness, along with the only big enough to fit Saphira's size.

Roran had jumped from the saddle the moment Saphira had entered Helgrind. Hammer in hand, he was racing down the nearest passage before Eragon could respond.

Every hair on the back of his neck prickling in unease, Eragon dismounted, keeping an eye out for anything prowling the shadows.

However, he spotted no dark shapes creeping in the corners. It was eerily silent, the only sounds being his she-dragon's heavy breathing and the far-off _drip-drop _of water.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eragon glimpsed something erupting from a pitch-black tunnel just before he landed on his back. Saphira's roar of surprise was joined in by a Lethrblaka's piercing shriek.

The Dragon Rider blinked dazedly, snapping out of it as the weak sunlight glinted off metal. He raised his staff just in time to block the sword that came whizzing by him. Glancing up into the hideous face of the taller Ra'zac, he snarled, kicking the creature off him with all the strength he could muster.

Eragon jumped to his feet, looking wildly about. The shorter Ra'zac and the Lethrblaka had surrounded Saphira. She lashed out with claws and jaws, not having the room to swing her tail in such an enclosed space. Instead of resorting to a costly fight, Saphira directed a torrent of flame at the Lethrblaka farthest from her Rider. The devastating fire that would have incinerated most any living creature merely bounced right off, leaving the Lethrblaka virtually unharmed.

Just as the Lethrblaka lunged forward again, Eragon raised his staff to parry another blow from the tall Ra'zac. He held out his hand, reflexively shouting his signature spell as his ruthless opponent surged forward.

_"Brisingr!"_

No blue flames came blazing to his aid. Eragon glanced down at his palm in confusion. The Ra'zac laughed hoarsely at his helplessness, black eyes glittering.

"Fool!" it rasped. "Did you honessstly think your ssspellsss would work here?"

Eragon and the tall Ra'zac remain locked in a struggle that neither seemed able to end. Without his magic, the Dragon Rider could rely only on his superhuman agility and strength. Against a Ra'zac, his enhanced abilities only made it an equal match. Parrying and delivering blows, it merely seemed a question of who could last the longest.

Saphira faced far tougher odds. Her flames useless, the narrow space gave her no room for defense. The agile Lethrblaka tauntingly remained just out of reach of her lashing paws and leaped out of the way just as her fangs came snapping down on the thin air they had just occupied. Her scales absorbed most of the damage, but their sharp beaks still managed to leave her bleeding from their mocking bites.

Inevitably, Eragon started to feel his own strength beginning to wane, and he cursed himself for leaving the belt of Beloth the Wise utterly depleted. The Ra'zac continued on just as ruthlessly, even _speeding _up with renewed vigor as he left more dents in his prey's armor and cuts on his exposed skin.

Saphira panted heavily, her movements slow and sluggish. Blood gushed from numerous wounds, spilling to the floor or dying sapphire scales scarlet.

At long last, a Lethrblaka slipped past her defenses. It evaded her snapping jaws, lunging to bury its cruel beak into her exposed neck. There was a moment of stillness as the Lethrblaka struggled on her scales, and then a triumphant shriek as it sprang away in a new burst of blood.

Saphira _screamed, _a terrible sound Eragon did not think dragons capable of producing. Through their connection, he felt her unbearable agony and screamed with her. Pouncing, the taller Ra'zac shattered his staff, sending him flying across the cavern.

Paralyzed with pain, Eragon could only watch as Saphira teetered, straining to stay conscious. Eyes rolling back into her head, the she-dragon went limp. The ground beneath him shuddered as she _thumped _to the ground, shuddered, and fell still.

His cries were drowned out by the victorious calls of the entire foul family.

"At lassst!" the shorter Ra'zac hissed. "Galbatorix ssshall have his ssshe-dragon back, with her Rider asss a bonusss!"

Eragon lay still, unable to wrench is eyes from Saphira's limp form. He scarcely heard the Ra'zac's declaration. He was only dimly aware of his own pain or the fact that Roran was next. Unseeingly, he gazed past his beloved she-dragon, and to phantom visions that had haunted his nightmares until he had stopped sleeping normally.

**He was back in Horst's home, gazing upon Garrow. His uncle was peaceful for the first time since the fire, as if he were merely asleep. Only, his chest wasn't rising and falling...**

**There was Brom, pale and weak in the face of death, having just revealed that, once upon a time, he had been a Rider too. "Guard Saphira with your life," he had rasped with some of his final breaths, "for without her it is hardly worth living." Shortly after, he too succumbed, yet another victim of the Ra'zac...**

**A sapphire she-dragon lay before him, her once-shining eyes holding only death. Even with her murderer standing right above him, he was powerless to reach up and take his vengeance, only to have the one thing he cherished above all else ripped away...**

Garrow. Brom. He had lost two true fathers to the monsters celebrating before him. Both times they had suffered for him, both times he had been too weak to prevent their deaths.

Now Saphira lay before him, vulnerable in a way she had never been before, for at least hatchlings could flee and the eggs had their shells. She was to suffer a fate worse than death if she were to ever be brought to Galbatorix. Her body would live on to mother monsters, aye, but her essence, her _soul, _the very inner fire that made her his Saphira, would be broken beyond repair by Shruikan's ravaging claws.

And, whether bound by oath or drugged in a cell, he would hear his Saphira _scream._

Slowly but surely, that horror was burned away by righteous anger. Righteous anger, anger toward those who had harmed his loved ones, and anger for himself at failing to protect them, rose up hot and heavy. The same fire that had unlocked his magic that fateful day in Yazuac rekindled, rejuvenating his weary limbs and washing away the self-pity.

With iron resolve, Eragon rose to a kneeling position, and relinquished control to the voice telling him to _burn..._

* * *

The taller of the two Ra'zac found its celebration cut short by a small scuffling sound. Reluctantly, it turned away from the glorious sight of a downed she-dragon to investigate.

The she-dragon's Rider was stubbornly attempting to rise to his feet. Why were humans so obsessed with their petty ideas of vengeance?

The Ra'zac had admittedly forgotten about the bothersome human. It had assumed sending something that small and feeble flying across the cavern had been enough to knock him out. But _no, _because humans were just one of those infuriatingly defiant pests that refused to accept defeat.

The Ra'zac hissed in exasperation. Could this one see that his stupidity would get him nowhere?

King Galbatorix had given the family strict orders that both the she-dragon and her Rider were to be brought to him alive. Supposedly one would die without the other, or at least lose their mind. But this one was so _annoying. _Perhaps the Ra'zac could snap his neck right now, and pretend it an accident done in the heat of battle? Galbatorix only truly desired the she-dragon, and only for her body so he could make yet more wretched dragons. So what if the Ra'zac broke her will a little earlier than planned?

The faltered, sensing a foreboding change in the air.

The Dragon Rider had not risen to his feet, but remained crouched like a predator braced for the kill. His flat teeth were bared much like the she-dragon had snarled. His eyes were brilliant blue, a _burning _blue, and locked hatefully on the Ra'zac.

The family all hesitated uneasily before him. Their contradictory instincts both urged them in for the kill and to flee. And not many creatures preyed on their kind, not since-

"Imposssible!" the taller Ra'zac hissed. He raised his sword, preparing to get rid of the nuisance once and for all.

The human pest _growled._

"No. _More. DEATH!"_

The Rider's last words were lost in a deafening bellow that sent stalactites raining to the floor.

The taller of the two Ra'zac caught a glimpse of white, before feeling an extreme heat his master's wards should have protected against.

It was engulfed by fiery blue, and then by empty darkness.

**Gave Eragon and Saphira a little tender moment before the Helgrind scene. It was their last real "normal" interaction, after all, and I felt Eragon originally came off as rather jerky during the scene. And seriously, if you're going to keep someone your enemy knows prisoner, why would you ****_not _****put up protective wards if he could easily slaughter your servants?**


	5. Act I: Chapter 2: Discovery Updated

**4/25 Edit: And the frustratingly slow updates continue :D! Hopefully this time around everything is less stilted, Saphira less of a bitch to Roran and Katrina, and Angela and Solembum less spoiler-iffic. **

Coming out of blissful oblivion, the first thing Saphira did was growl at the throbbing pain in the back of her head. Squeezing her eyes shut, she did her best to keep still to try and not disturb the scab on her neck

So the Lethrblaka had bested her, leaving her just injured enough to pass out from the blood loss. Was she in Urubaen now? Were Thorn and Shruikan standing over her, ready to fight to see who forcefully fathered her first clutch of eggs?

As the pain subsided, Saphira shifted her limbs, finding them unshackled and the rocky ground beneath them familiar. Good, still free and in Helgrind (not so good). Someone must have overpowered her tormentors when she had been unconscious. Roran, perhaps? Not unless he had slaughtered both Ra'zac and their parents with a hammer. Had Eragon found a way to break the wards, leaving him free to execute their captors with a single one of the twelve words of death? If so, Saphira was determined to eat her Rider after ensuring he was alright.

_Little one, _she growled reproachfully, _you forgot to heal my-_

Wrenching her eyes open, Saphira was welcomed back to consciousness by the burnt carcass of a Lethrblaka.

Recoiling in surprise, the she-dragon lurched defensively to her paws, a warning rumbling instinctively from the back of her throat. Eyes wide, she gaped down at the bodies strewn about the cavern. The two Lethrblaka resembled charred sticks more so than bats. One Ra'zac reeked like the meat Eragon had once overcooked on his fire. Its sibling had been burnt beyond recognition, having obviously caught the brunt of the blast, its exoskeleton shattered by heat and its insides little more than melted goop.

Saphira knew her own flames had not done this, not while she had been down for the count. And even if Eragon had somehow broken the wards and had again used _Brisingr _on his enemies, it was very unlike him to so ruthlessly _obliterate _them. Unless he had been _that _affected by her capture, she morbidly wondered.

That is, until she had caught sight of the fifth figure on the ground, lying some distance from the others.

Completing the bewildering mystery before her was a dragon, an actual dragon, silvery-white in its scale color and pale silver in its wing membranes. By scent, he was male. By size, Saphira roughly estimated him to be slightly larger than her, a few years or so older. Eyes closed, the white dragon was disturbingly limp, just as the charred bodies around him. However, unlike those lifeless corpses, his chest still rose and fell with every inhale and exhale of breath.

Caution outweighing curiosity and concern, Saphira warily kept her distance and her mind tightly sealed.

_He has to be an illusion, _she thought frantically to herself. _How can he be anything but a creation of magic, the hallucination of an insane mind? There are only three other dragons in the whole of Alagaesia, and none of them are white! Nor could he be from that final egg Murtagh mentioned, it's far too soon for the hatchling to be this big!_

Keeping one eye on the stranger, Saphira desperately looked about for Eragon. She saw no trace of him amongst the bodies, nor any sign he had left the area.

The sapphire she-dragon inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. Beneath the foul stench of charred meat, she detected a scent as familiar as her own. Only, it seemed to be coming from...

_The dragon?_

Tentatively lowering her mental defenses, Saphira reached out to the mysterious male's unconscious mind, quickly drawing back at its warm familiarity.

_Eragon? _he called out warily.

She received no response but a weak rumble from the other dragon. Her hackles rose at the very recognizable undertone to the guttural sound.

Cautiously, Saphira crept forward. She never lowered her guard, still almost desperately hoping the male's unconscious state was a ploy, a trick to lure her closer for an attack. Another battle seemed almost preferable to impossible reality. However, the white dragon never stirred, even when prodded with a claw.

Hesitating only momentarily, Saphira shook her head and growled at her own shameful cowardice. The stranger's right front fore-paw had clenched instinctively shut. Carefully, she pried the protesting talons open, wanting to see exactly what they were hiding.

The male's paw as as silvery-white as the rest of him. However, in the center of what would have been a human's palm was a cluster of scales far darker than the others. Saphira's claw traced the mark, remembering the identical one she had given Eragon all those very long months ago. Unmistakably, the dragon possessed a _gedwey ignasia, _a sign that ironically marked him as a Rider of his own kind.

And, impossible as it seemed, he was _her _Rider, her Eragon.

Reaching out, tenderly this time, Saphira called the name she now knew to be truly his.

Receiving only silence in reply, the she-dragon curiously surveyed his transformed state. Aside from Glaedr and Thorn, he was the only other dragon she had ever personally laid eyes on. A creature of flesh and bone, a far cry from the insubstantial ghosts of ancestral memories and the distant recollections of others, a haunting reminder of a proud and mighty race almost entirely lost during the Fall.

Six cheek spikes, three on each side, framed Eragon's new face. Bone-white spikes ran down his back, except for the traditional gap, to the tip of his tail, where several larger spikes formed a nasty-looking club. His chest and head were broader than her own, his snout longer. He seemed to be more heavily-built, but still nowhere near as stocky as Thorn. If Saphira had been born a flier and Thorn a fighter, Eragon seemed somewhere between the two, capable of dealing devastating blows while still looking remotely graceful in the air.

The only thing strange about Eragon's new appearance were the _six _horns adorning his head. One pair behind the other, with the two in front being the largest, they seemed to form a rudimentary crown. Neither Thorn nor Glaedr had so many horns and the only six-horned dragons in her memory were what she innately identified as _royal._

Saphira gazed wonderingly down at his closed eyelids. Did her Rider still gaze from underneath them, brown irises and all? Were they the same silver of his wings? Or were his irises so pale he looked blind?

Cursing her curiosity, Saphira delicately lifted an eyelid with a claw, taking great care not to puncture something on its sharp tip.

Exposed to such dim lighting, the semi-round pupil dilated. The iris surrounding it was still a dark, human brown- at least those parts not seared through by a brilliant blue.

Growling, Saphira reflexively retreated back several steps. _That _had been unexpected.

_Oh, if this is another so-called gift from those elves... As if Eragon making himself an idiot in front of Arya wasn't enough!_

Elsewhere in Helgrind came an echoing clatter as Roran presumably hammered down the door imprisoning Katrina. Saphira rumbled anxiously. She had forgotten about them. How long would it take Roran to notice his cousin's absence? To come looking for him? His fiance had already endured hell; the last thing she needed was to be there when her future in-law woke up to a rather unexpected surprise.

The she-dragon glanced at her (former?) Rider. What if he awoke while she was away? Their luck was infamous for not holding. Obviously Eragon would lose it when waking up alone in a transformed body and perhaps even accidentally harm himself in his panic. Not to mention he would be defenseless in this strange form. What would happen if Murtagh, or gods forbid, Galbatorix, came to investigate? They would find an unconscious dragon all ready to be carted back to Urubaen!

Saphira snorted, wishing she could slap herself. _Don't be ridiculous, Saphira! No one has any idea we're in the Empire. So long as I hurry Roran and Katrina back to the Burning Plains then I should be here before he even wakes up!_

The she-dragon connected minds with Eragon a final time, sending calming waves across that would hopefully keep him blissfully unaware until she could return to him.

_Behave while I'm gone, Eragon. I'll be back as soon as I can. Just please keep the rash and impulsive decisions to a minimum. It gets rather tedious having to constantly rescue you from the Empire, and I won't be able to carry you off quite so easily this time!_

* * *

Saphira discovered Roran helping a young woman who was presumably Katrina out of her cell. She was dangerously emaciated, her ribs visible beneath her torn and threadbare dress, shivering from the passage's cold. She also looked ready keel over from heart attack at her first mild surprise. Meeting a giant she-dragon for the first time definitely counted as a surprise, but Saphira couldn't afford to take things gradually; not when Eragon desperately needed her.

Once free of the cell, Katrina and Roran enveloped each other, tears streaming down of their faces. Two lovers, united at long last after such trial and tribulation.

Saphira's heart ached yearningly at the tender reunion. While her heart went out to the couple, such a devoted mate would never be hers, not while Galbatorix kept her only three potential mates as his slaves.

_I see you've found your mate-to-be, _she said wryly, opening her mind to both of them.

Katrina stiffened, craning her head around. She quizzically peered up at Saphira for a full minute before reality struck. Shrieking, she clung desperately to Roran. Her fiance stroked her copper hair soothingly, sending the she-dragon a silent promise he would make her into one damn fine pair of blue boots if she even _thought _about purposefully upsetting the poor woman.

"Remember what I told you, Katrina?" Roran reassuringly whispered into her ear. "About Eragon being a Dragon Rider?"

_I'm Saphira, the dragon, _Saphira interjected smoothly, lowering her head so she looked the human woman straight in the eye. _Eragon may be the Rider, but I'm the one who can choose to leave him on a desolate mountaintop if he ticks me off._

Katrina giggled, her posture relaxing. "Right. Sorry about... that."

_Don't worry, that's the typical response to meeting a creature as overwhelmingly majestic as myself. _The she-dragon hummed. _It is in honor to finally meet you in the flesh, Katrina. Roran told me of you every single night and has scoured Alagaesia for you long before meeting me. You are lucky to have such a dedicated mate._

The two lovers locked eyes, entwining their hands. "I really am, aren't I?" Her gray eyes flickered back to Saphira. "But I never thought I'd have someone so _famous _as an in-law, and never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine speaking to a _dragon_!"

Roran frowned. "Speaking of dragons, where's my cousin?" His gaze sharpened. "You didn't leave him fighting those demons alone, did you?"

_Would you leave a lamb with wolves? _Saphira growled. _No, the Ra'zac and their parents are all finally dead. Eragon saw to that. He now just wants to remain behind to explore Helgrind's depths to see what the King may have stashed here. _Apprehension growing, she glanced down the long row of cells. Some had obviously been broken into already, but a good portion remained sealed. _Are there any other survivors?_

"Nothing but bones," Roran choked. Katrina clenched his hand tighter as fresh tears spilled from her eyes. "Except for Sloan... those bastards left just enough for us to identify him."

Saphira knew the Ra'zac preferred humans and favored their meals fresh. Her arrival in Helgrind must have disturbed their feeding... minutes after it had been too late to save the man who had sold Eragon out to them in the first place. Tentatively reaching out with her mind, she encountered the three sentient presences she already knew about. No one else, out of so many other cells, was left.

Saphira leaned down. _Come. Katrina, you need medical treatment Eragon isn't capable of providing you, and it's best that your fiance not linger here long._

Roran helped his lover into the saddle, but stood his ground with stubbornness that seemed to run in the family. "What about Eragon?" he prompted impatiently. "Certainly you're not leaving my cousin, and your Rider, alone in this hell!"

_The sooner you two are safe and sound back at camp, the sooner I can come back here and make sure Eragon is the same way, _Saphira replied smoothly. _My Rider will be fine on his own for a few days, but that doesn't mean I like leaving him anymore than you do._

Reluctantly, Roran climbed up after Katrina, taking the time to wrap her in a blanket from the saddle-bags to help shield her from the cold. Saphira padded back towards the entrance, sneaking furtive glances down the tunnel where an unconscious Eragon lay.

_Be safe, little one._

Even as she flapped down to the Burning Plains as fast as her wings could carry her, Saphira's thoughts and worries remained in Helgrind, all for the vulnerable white dragon her Rider had become.

* * *

Angela was no fool. If she believed a chipped old teapot to be a disguised magical artifact, then it _was, _and she certainly didn't appreciate being cheated out of _anything. _She had argued long and hard with the dishonest man... until stopping dead in her tracks when that _feeling _sent pleasant shivers down her spine.

"Fine," the witch huffed. "You keep it!"

Shoving the teapot into its owner's arms, Angela hurried back to the privacy of her tent. Rummaging frantically through her pockets, she fished out her knuckle bones, casting them onto the wooden table she had filched from King Orrin's quarters.

Solembum had been napping peacefully on her cot, taking great care to leave clumps of fur behind. Blinking his crimson eyes open blearily, he yawned, revealing needle-sheep teeth. Noticing what Angela was doing, the werecat's jaws snapped shut as he nimbly leaped from the cot to to the table.

_I see you had the urge to consult the bones again, _he drawled.

Angela glared at Solembum, her face alarmingly serious. The werecat wisely backed up to the table's edge as he planned an emergency escape route. "You, of all beings, should know not to mock me when I have my game-face on. When Anea speaks, she _speaks, _and neither of us like to be interrupted."

Solembum sniffed. _That look would be much more intimidating if you really could devour me with one bite._

The herbalist scoffed. "Trust me, there's a spell for that somewhere." She peered intensely down at the bones, hazel eyes flashing inhuman green as her fingers traced over the designs that had appeared on their surfaces.

Again, the white orb in black. Past and present, old and new, colliding at unnatural levels. A bone of both sunset and sunrise, intricately bound so that neither could happen without the other. Finally, a phoenix rising from the ashes of the old, haloed in blue fire.

"The King returns," she murmured. "The King ascends. Old or new, I cannot say. A miracle overshadowed by a grave warning. Oh, a new era shall dawn, but at what cost? What must set in order for its successor to rise?"

Solembum ran his paw over the bones, taking great care to actually _not _touch them. He too saw Angela's signs, but stopped cold at the two blank bones caught in the middle. His dark fur bristled. _Two. Two souls, be they two reborn dragons or first life and incarnation, are bound to this prophecy. Both the cause and the solution._

Slowly, a humorless smile spread across Angela's face, one that would have looked far better with a pair of fangs.

"Why, what a peculiarly interesting time to be reborn into."

**Dragon Appearances: For any curious, Eridor's/Eragon's draconic appearances were crudely based on an old character I played in an online RPG (white scales, blue eyes, and leaner builds.) Eragon's silver tinge and _gedwey ignasia_ help mark him as his own unique character, not just an identical extension of his past life. 'Royal' dragons needed a feature to set them apart from the others, and, fooling around on an online program, I discovered three pairs of horns came together to one damn fine excuse for a crown.**

**Eragon's transformation is _almost, almost _complete. His soul is still somewhere between human and dragon, explaining those damn freaky eyes.**

**Sloan: In a wonderful twist of karma, Sloan got eaten alive by the same creatures he ratted Eragon out to. He and the baggage he brings were unneeded for this fic, especially when Saphira needs to get to the Surdan border and back in a hurry. (I can only keep poor Eragon unconcious for _so long_.)**


	6. Act I: Chapter 3: Awakening Updated

**7/5 Edit: And... it's been a while again, sorry XD. Hopefully this time I cut down on the long-winded, stilted conversation.**

**Disclaimer: ****_The Inheritance Cycle _****belongs to Chris Paolini, I'm just playing in his sandbox. All material you don't recognize from his works belongs to me.**

By the time Saphira managed to make it back to Helgrind, the setting sun dipped halfway beneath the horizon. With a speed she had once thought impossible, she had flapped back to the Varden's camp like a dragon possessed, her fatigue drowned out by the overpowering desire of returning to Eragon's vulnerable side.

Despite Katrina turning chalk-white and Roran all but begging she slow down, Saphira had never lessened her breakneck pace. All true cares and concerns were reserved solely for her Rider. So what if the wind was a little nippy, their stomachs a little queasy? The couple would soon have the luxury of complaining from the safety of camp. Eragon was alone and unconscious deep in hostile territory.

Saphira had finally arrived in the Burning Plains agonizing hours after departing, landing in the midst of the dazed camp in the dead of night. Even as bewildered people, Arya and Nasuada amongst them, spilled forth from their tents, she only ushered her two passengers down. Her mind remained stubbornly closed to conversation as her claws then groped for the straps cinching the saddle to her back. Tearing the leather carelessly, Saphira shook herself free of the cumbersome weight.

"Saphira!" Nasuada cried frantically as she fought her way through the swelling crowds. "What in the seven hells is going-"

Saphira rocketed into the air with one mighty thrust of her wings, her lady's shouts cut off by the shrieking wind.

Would she be questioned upon returning? Certainly. Scolded? Aye. Punished? Possibly. Did she care at the moment?

...No. Driven by the overwhelming urge to protect her Eragon, all other worries, including her own personal safety, paled in comparison.

Without the heavy saddle pressing into her back, the return flight was faster than Saphira had anticipated. Yet, though she flew with the speed of the wind, her progress was painfully slow. Every moment, one when Eragon could wake up alone in a dragon's body, crawled agonizingly by.

Saphira never stopped for prey, relying on what food remained in her belly and energy reserves to keep her going. Only when her throat burned did she pause to quench her momentous thirst. Several massive gulps later, she was back in the air before exhaustion could catch up. Wings partially numb from fatigue, she pressed resolutely on, even as the sun rose to its zenith and started sliding back down.

Finally, Saphira reached her destination, hauling herself inside as the sun also retired for the day. Approximately one full day had passed since she had first discovered the transformed Eragon. She could only hope he had not awoken prematurely, pray that the white dragon had not injured himself in his panic.

Saphira's keen vision remained clear even in the growing gloom. Finding the way back through the maze-like passages was simple; she just followed the stench of rotting meat back to where five bodies still hopefully rested.

To her great relief, Eragon was still out cold, his white scales in stark contrast against the black stone walls. He had drifted out of true unconsciousness and into a shallower slumber, the proof his rumbling snores. Saphira rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. Apparently the trance-like state of waking dreams that had replaced true sleep for Eragon after the Blood-Oath Ceremony had vanished with this latest metamorphosis.

Saphira hung uncertainly back. Surely it was unwise for Eragon to remain asleep for so long, but a part of her didn't want to wake him just yet. The sadness and anxiety that haunted his features during the waking hours was now wonderfully absent. Here he looked so peaceful and innocent. Seeing her Rider like this reminded Saphira of the blissfully ignorant boy she had grown to love in her hatchling days, before misfortune had befallen him.

Sighing, the she-dragon quietly padded closer. Would it be so wrong to spare such an alarming revelation for another few hours? If Saphira awoke one day to discover herself a human woman, she would first panic and then go off to strangle whoever responsible with her brand new hands.

_But you will get over it, little one. _Saphira snorted laughingly at the very inappropriate nickname. Knowing how magic worked, it would become accurate again mere minutes after returning to the Varden. _With everything you've been through, from Shades to grouchy former Dragon Riders, being a dragon for a few hours should be nothing to you._

Mind made up, she gently eased herself in next to the white dragon.

Saphira had been able to look Eragon in the eye for a very short time before yet another growth spurt had sent her shooting up past him. Since her youth she hadn't any other companions close to her size; she dwarfed all humanoids and was in turn dwarfed by the titanic Glaedr.

Saphira could press the _old _Eragon straight into her, draping a wing over him as if to shield him from the evils of the world. And, although she still foolishly feared squishing her Rider by accidentally rolling on top of him, she knew he still slept best when curled up to the heat her body always radiated.

_This _Eragon was nearly her equal in size and strength, an Eragon who could hold his own if she ever tried to roll into him. For the first time since she had been able to curl up onto her human's chest, Saphira was now soothed by the warmth _he _now emanated.

She draped a wing over his slumbering form. So what if Eragon was now too massive for her to completely shelter? This new (_temporary) _body was far less fragile and its warmth soothed the soreness in her wing.

Drained from her strenuous journey, Saphira yawned, instinctively strengthening their connection as she placed her head close to his. The blissful tranquility that freely flowed from his mind was a lullaby of its own. Safe and secure in their bond, the sapphire she-dragon drifted off into a dreamless slumber, feeling so _right _while next to him.

* * *

Reluctantly coming out of unconsciousness, Eragon groaned. His stomach ached as if he had been lying down on it for hours. Come to think of it, his entire body felt oddly heavy, like his limbs were tied down with weights. Giving yet another unintelligible groan, he attempted to role over onto his side, only to find himself hindered by a scaly barrier.

_Good morning, Eragon, _came an innately familiar voice.

_S-S-Saphira? _he managed. An exhausted haze had settled over his mind, and it took every ounce of his willpower to collect and send his thoughts as coherent words. Gradually, he became aware of the warm presence he leaned against, and wrinkled his nose at the stench of charred meat.

Attempting to rise, Eragon gave up when his alarmingly heavy limbs refused to obey. He settled for cracking his eyes open. In the darkness for so long, even the dim light proved too intense for his hypersensitive eyes. Snapping them shut with a pained hiss, he desperately turned his mind back to Saphira's.

_Where... am I? What... happened? _With a new surge of strength, Eragon again fought his disobedient limbs, frowning slightly when Saphira gently stopped him. His heartbeat quickened as he fully returned to awareness. _Saphira, what happened? What's wrong?_

The scaly warmth beside him heaved with a heavy sigh. She concealed her hesitation and fear behind a barrier even he strained to look past. Pretending he hadn't noticed, Eragon latched on intently to every word. _Eragon, _she began after a lifetime of silence, _what do __**you **__remember?_

Barely containing his exasperation, Eragon went to answer... until realizing he could recall nothing of those last few moments. His pulse increased even further, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. How long had he been out? It was morning now, but what time of day had it been last? Determined to piece the puzzle together for himself, Eragon wrestled with his bleary mind.

_We reached Helgrind. That impossible flower... marked the secret entrance. Roran, he was with us... went to search for his... Katrina. You and I faced the Ra'zac and.. those creatures. Something went wrong. I had no magic and you no fire. That Ra'zac trapped me and you were cornered. One got you by the throat, cut off the circulation. Blood, so much blood... _

The pieces clicked together just as his heart stopped for one horrible second. _SAPHIRA! _Eragon struggled to rise, writhing in vain beneath his she-dragon's iron grip. _What the hell happened? The blood- let me heal you, Saphira! Gods, you must be bleeding out-_

Her mind firmly clenched down on his, silencing the stream of blind panic. _Calm down, little one. _She spoke slowly, coaxingly, as if he were an injured beast too foolish to understand. _I'm here. I'm fine. Both of us are fine... relatively, and free as birds. The Lethrblaka and their foul spawn will never harm us. Never again. _Saphira's tone sharpened slightly. _Now stop struggling. You'll only injure yourself._

Scowling stubbornly, Eragon shook off the pleasant images of calm skies and clear lakes Saphira had sent across their link. _What. Happened?_

_Why must you ask so many questions? _Saphira retorted teasingly. However, she quickly abandoned her lighthearted joke, sighing in defeat. _Open your eyes, Eragon. Your questions will be answered soon enough._

Reluctantly, Eragon blinked open his eyes and narrowed them in confusion. His vision was tinged blue as if he looked through a filter, the other colors dulled in comparison. Not that any of it stopped him from seeing the charred hunks of flesh and ash, all that remained of the Ra'zac and their parents, clouds of flies swarming over their remains. His longtime foes, the seemingly invincible monsters that had both been the catalyst for the start of his adventures and the incentive to finish them, reduced to nothing but food for the scavengers.

Suddenly feeling as if he were about to wretch in disgust and horror, Eragon wrenched his gaze away from the gruesome sight. Burrowing his head in Saphira's shoulder, he inhaled her familiar scent, grateful to have it caught in his nostrils over the stench of death and decay.

_Who did this? _he whispered. Even the memory of their corpses, burnt almost beyond recognition, caused him to shudder. Eragon was both horrified the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka had suffered a fate he had never wished upon them before and grimly satisfied that his sworn enemies had perished in a manner that so poetically resembling Garrow's. It was cruelty and vengeance in their strongest power. _Was it you, Saphira?_

_Not I, Eragon, _Saphira answered gently. _Have you already forgotten I was just as helpless as you? That my flames had no effect? Galbatorix's spells prevented even dragon-fire from harming his precious __servants._

_Then __**who **__rescued us? And where are they and Ro- Gods, Katrina, is she-_

Saphira put a proverbial finger to his mental lips. _Peace, little one. Both your nestmate and his bride-to-be are safe and sound back in the Varden. By the time I woke up, Roran had already gotten Katrina out of her cell. She was emaciated and in dire need of medical attention. You were unconscious, but secure enough, and it was the sort of thing you'd do in my position._

Eragon's stomach clenched violently. _The Varden's camp? In the Burning Plains? Even if you flew top speed and without a single rest, that's still more than a day's journey from..._ He broke off, disturbed. _Saphira... exactly how long have I been unconscious?_

_For well over a day,_ she admitted softly. _It was sunset when I awoke. By the time I carried Roran and Katrina to the Varden and flew all the way back, it was sunset yet again. _The she-dragon heaved a guilty sigh. _You were sleeping normally by then. Perhaps I was wrong to leave you like that, but you looked so peaceful and I was exhausted. How could I face this without a clear head?_

_Face what?_

Saphira paused, doing her damned best to hide her alarm. _I just looked through a passing owl's memories. It's just past dawn and she's flying back to her-_

Frowning, Eragon glanced about in confusion. How could that be possible? He could see everything, from the charred corpses of his fallen foes to the minute pebbles strewn about the ground, in perfect clarity. Even after the Blood-Oath Ceremony, his night vision wasn't _that _good. Compared to the dark and dreary cavern he had entered just more than a day ago, this place was as illuminated as Oromis's hut on a sunny afternoon.

Eragon suddenly felt like laughing hysterically at the completely unfunny joke. Part of him simply wanted to call Saphira a liar.

Only, he had _felt _her grim honesty.

_Told you so, stone-head. _Quick as it surfaced, Saphira's usual dry humor flitted away. _Your vision has improved during your time unconscious. Drastically improved._

Eragon fought to breathe evenly, struggling against the mind-numbing panic he longed to succumb to. _How_ had his eyesight improved? He faced a similar change during the _Agaeti Blodhren, _but such alterations were natural, the _final _transition from ordinary human into powerful Dragon Rider. Besides, even with the improvements bestowed upon him, his night vision was nothing compared to Saphira's!

The last time Eragon had seen with sight so sharp and blue-biased had been with eyes not his own. For a brief moment, Saphira had strengthened their bond so intensely she had pulled his mind into her body, allowing him to see through her eyes. A dragon's eyes. Why, then, _did he have them now?_

Like a knife, Saphira's knife cut through his panic. _**Look **__at yourself, Eragon._

Mutely complying, Eragon heaved himself onto his stomach, gazing down at his two hands. He expected, _hoped, _to see the tanned, five-fingered hands he had been born with.

His hopes shattered with a single glance downward. His human hands had vanished. In their place were paws, two _very large _paws. Four "fingers," each tipped with a long and cruel claw, adorned each. His thumbs had shifted to the back, now resembling the talons a hawk used to perch on trees.

"What are these?" Eragon screamed. Or, at least, tried to scream. The words tumbled out of his mouth as a series of unintelligible and frightening growls that belonged more to a beast than a man.

Saphira leaped away when Eragon lurched up, attempting to stagger to his own two feet to fully inspect the damage. He succeeded only in sprawling onto his side, exposing a nightmare made real.

White scales covered his entire body, natural armor for his vulnerable flesh. The power-looking tail behind him twitched weakly when he flexed previously nonexistent muscles. Two silver-membraned wings adorned his shoulders, tangled among his alien limbs.

Eragon screamed... and screamed again when only an inhuman roar escaped him. _Roaring _louder than ever, he writhed frantically, trying to get onto his own two feet and OUT OF THIS NIGHT-

Saphira's claws pinned him firmly to the ground. Though Eragon now nearly had the strength to throw her off, the she-dragon still held down his flailing limbs without trouble. She clamped a paw over his jaws, silencing him with a look that could have frozen fire.

_Hush! _she hissed. _Being a dragon will be the least of your problems if Dras-Leona hears you!_Eragon glared up at her, but fell obediently limp. _Easy for you to say! You're not the one waking up in a stranger's body!_

Saphira's hard gaze softened, a small sigh escaping her. She released him, giving him his room. _I'm sorry, little one. _The white dragon grunted, again trying to stagger to his f-... paws. Saphira made no effort to help him up, simply advising, _Don't keep moving like you can walk on two legs_. _Dragons can only hold themselves up on their hind-legs for a brief period of time. Think about... crawling instead, like a baby._

_I don't think you can compare those, Saphira._

In his _true _body, he had very rarely shuffled around on his hands and knees while searching for dropped objects. The shape and length of his legs wouldn't have allowed him to move any easier. His new, _temporary_ body made such movement impossible. Getting up onto all four paws, Eragon worked on moving each forelimb in tandem with its diagonal hind-limb. Mimicking the way Saphira walked, Eragon tentatively circled around the cavern several times to become accustomed to the jarring sensation.

Saphira nodded in proud approval. _You're a real natural, little one. Now get your tail over here and help me keep this chamber from getting any more nauseating. I'd rather not share the only damned place we'd both fit comfortably with such unpleasant company._

Eragon eagerly agreed. Saphira seized a Lethrblaka by the wing and dragged it to an adjacent chamber. His stomach churned at ever allowing his mouth anywhere near his enemy's rotting corpse. Instead he pushed a charred carcass awkwardly along with his front paws, receiving an eye-roll from Saphira but no scolding.

_Saphira, not that I'm not grateful, but shouldn't we be leaving this hellhole soon? We've been gone for so long and Roran is probably worried sick about me. Not to mention what Nasuada will do to us..._

The sapphire she-dragon snorted, stubbornly lying back down. _I'm in no hurry. I flew across much of the known world and back in under two days, and I'll need more than a small nap to make that journey again. Besides, everyone else believes you're scouring Helgrind for some secret Galbatorix stashed. You can spend another day with scales and nobody will ever find out._

_And, Eragon, you're as hungry and thirsty as I am. _She bared her fangs playfully. _Surely you want to be completely rested before we begin your flying lessons?_

_FLYING lessons?_

_Oh, aye._ Saphira sniffed disdainfully. _You've more than tripled in size and weight since your transformation, "little one." Certainly you don't expect me to break my back carrying you back! __Besides, my saddle is back at camp, and we've both been degraded and humiliated enough for our lifetimes._

Eragon gave a choked growl of horrified shock. Had it been possible, he would have been flushed crimson. He hadn't considered the sudden... _possibilities _of his temporary body. _S-Saphira! How could you even think of... __**that**__!_

Something darkened in the she-dragon's eyes that made her Rider wonder just how much she had been teasing. _I am the last known surviving female of my kind, Eragon. There are only four others left. One has clearly rejected my advances. Two are servants of my sworn enemy. The last is still in his egg and unlikely to hatch any time soon. Aye, my mind and heart know you as my __**human **__Rider, but my body only recognizes the current reality, a reality I may never have again._

Eragon's anger deflated. He remembered Saphira's hopeless infatuation with Glaedr all too well, her desperation in trying to woo the only other dragon on their side, and her crushing rejection when her affections had been so curtly denied. Even with Arya's disinterest in a romantic relationship, there were still many human and elf women for him to choose from. Eragon had unwittingly become Saphira's own Arya, a love interest who could simply not reciprocate, and she had _no other _to fall back on.

Shaking herself from her misery, Saphira shifted her head, reaching over to clean the dried gore from her scales. Eragon's guilt only intensified. The she-dragon's hide was riddled with deep scratches and dents. Dried blood from more serious her wounds pooled on her scale, turning their beautiful sapphire color a horrible mix of dull red and blue.

_Saphira, _he whispered. _I'm sorry, so, so sorry. I should have been there to-_

_What? _Saphira countered briskly. _Protect me? Without my fire and your magic, we were both helpless against those creatures. You could barely defend yourself against one Ra'zac, let alone defend me from the other and their parents! _Eragon flinched. _Don't blame_ _yourself, Eragon. What happened with the Ra'zac is finally over and done with, and now we should just let it lie._

The white dragon sighed, reluctantly dropping the matter. He'd only upset Saphira with more apologies. _Still, _he mused with a shudder, _**something **__must have killed them. Maybe it was the same force that transformed me, a defense mechanism or something._

_I have a few theories. _Humor returning to her eyes, Saphira whirled around. _If you'll excuse me, "little one," I'm going hunting. I promise to bring something back for you. There's a stream around here somewhere if you're thirsty._

_You're going hunting so close to Dras-Leona! It's one of the cities most loyal to the King!_

_Please, _Saphira huffed. _Do you think I cowered away in a cave when you and Brom traipsed through the Empire? I was able to live and hunt in the surrounding countryside without ever being detected. Besides, giant flying animals are a common sight around here, or they used to be. I don't think anyone wants to be noticed by a hunting Lethrblaka._

_Or a hungry she-dragon, _Eragon muttered.

Saphira laughed, the sound a melody of joy and mischief over their link. And, with a powerful beat of her wings, she was gone, leaving her Rider with only the stones and corpses for company.

Sighing, the white dragon awkwardly laid back down, hoping for a spontaneous transformation back to his human body before Saphira shoved him off a cliff.

**Looking back, Saphira's love life is even poorer than Eragon's. At least he has elf women. Saphira's only romantic choices right now are either enslaved to a madman or old enough be her great-times-infinity grandfather. Can you blame her instincts for getting a little excited by a suddenly very eligible bachelor, even if her mind knows it can never be?**


	7. Act I: Chapter 4: Nightmares Updated

**7/5 Edit: The italicized section has been altered drastically from its original format. Remember, this time I'm aiming for "shades of gray" instead of boringly black-hearted antagonists... and protagonists. **

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _belongs to Chris Paolini. Everything you don't recognize as cannon belongs to me.**

Shockingly, the hunt was much easier than Saphira had expected. Usually when hunting in the Empire's lands she had to fly miles away to find a patch of isolated wilderness where she could hunt without fear of being spotted by human eyes. Even then, the pickings were scant, hunters already having taken the best prey for themselves.

But Dras-Leona was a sprawling city, not a self-dependent town or village. What little meat the average citizen could afford came from farms in the vicinity. The forest had been a buffer zone between them and Helgrind, a hunting ground for the Lethrblaka when they craved something other than human sacrifices. Here the deer were plump and plenty, perfect for feeding two hungry dragons.

It wasn't long before Saphira brought down two large deer for herself. She tore the meat from her prey with the ferocity of an entire pack of starving wolves. Only halfway through her second deer did her hunger subside enough for her to think cohesively again.

Eragon was a dragon now, be it permanently or temporarily. A large, white, _male _dragon. Though he acted like his usual self, right down to the endless volley of questions, Saphira suspected the change had been more than skin-deep.

The deep bond she and her Rider shared remained as strong and unbroken as ever, but... different. Changed. More like the maternal bond between mother and hatchling. In a way, Saphira _was _a sort of mother, caring for one defenseless, overgrown hatchling.

_No, even a hatchling has instinct and ancestral memory! Eragon is a human... elf-thing trapped in a dragon's body._

But, with the species between them removed for the time being, just how platonic _were _her current feelings toward him? The part of her mind reserved for intimate relationships _was _mainly occupied by their bond. Saphira painfully knew from past experience just how much of a slave she could be to her own instincts. She was young, fertile, a member of a dying race that really needed reinforcements-

With their bond changed, did that make Eragon a dragon in essence as well as body? Had the Rider spell been unable to support such a warped connection between those now of the same kind? Did that make his transformation irreversible? If he changed back, would the original parameters of their link be restored? Or be broken forever?

What if not even the strongest magicians could change him back? Galbatorix already had two males to 'rebuild' the dragons. Eragon might be useful to him only as a test subject, to see if _females _could be transformed as he. If both captured, would they be forced to mate to provide even the tiniest more variety to the gene pool?

Saphira shuddered in revulsion. Even amongst Riders' dragons, mating was not an act to be taken lightly. Especially if their union was not of free will, only by Galbatorix's twisted desires to shape their offspring as he wished!

But the act of mating itself was... not as abhorrent as she had first thought.

Saphira smacked her head against a tree, growling violently. _Damn instincts! Damn magic! Damn- No, it's not Eragon's fault, but if I can ever get my fangs into the god that's- _

Shoving the remnants of her prey aside, Saphira turned to third buck she had caught, largest of them all. Eragon was probably starving, both from days without eating and from a presumably exhausting transformation. Even one massive buck wouldn't be enough, but Saphira wasn't going to push her luck; forcing _any _meat down her Rider's throat would be near impossible.

_Hopefully he's hungry enough to shove his morals aside._

No dragon should have qualms about eating another living creature, not if it was the only food source that kept them around for those that _actually _cared about them. But Eragon had suffered enough for one lifetime, and Saphira could spare him this.

Recalling the simpler times before Du Weldenvarden, she held the deer down and reached toward the stomach with an extended claw.

* * *

Scouring every inch of Helgrind, Eragon had shoved is horned head into anywhere it would fit. Surely Galbatorix would have stashed _something_ valuable in such a (formerly) isolated and well-guarded fortress! A key to his weakness, the last dragon egg, a magic sock; anything other than the bones and dried blood of past prisoners!

After hours of coming every nook and cranny, Eragon grudgingly admitted defeat. The protective enchantments held in place by the Ra'zac and the Lethrblaka had crumbled with them. Helgrind hid no more secrets.

Heeding Saphira's advice, Eragon followed the sound of gurgling water to a small stream that ran right through Helgrind's very heart. Mimicking the sapphire she-dragon, he lowered his head to the water and gulped it down greedily, soothing the desert his parch throat had become.

Licking the last water droplets from his snout, he curiously raised his head. His sharp eyes traced the stream's origin back to solid rock.

Rather than having his precious servants drink from a normal water source that could be easily poisoned or serve as a spot to be ambushed from, Galbatorix had simply conjured up one no rebel could sabotage. Eragon guessed he had summoned up the water from deep beneath Helgrind, channeling it up to a safer, higher area.

_And I have trouble getting a handful of water from an entire desert! _Eragon glared hatefully down at his white-scaled chest. _As if I can even practice now._

Ordinarily, dragons were the most powerful creatures in Alagaesia. Their wings and fire-breath meant they didn't even have to approach the titanic animals that prowled the Boers. Even the Fanghur, their close cousins, had neither their flames nor their superior size and strength.

However, with a single word, the weakest magician could stop the heart of the mightiest dragon to ever walk the earth. Galbatorix happened to be a magician strong enough to single-handedly corrupt the ancient bond between Rider and dragon.

Despite the incredible strength now surging through surging through his veins, Eragon had never felt weaker. He could no longer tap into the area of his mind that held his dormant magic. True, dragons possessed a unique and ancient magic no other race could wield, but not even they could control when and how it manifested. His human body, while physically fragile in comparison, could cut down legions of unguarded soldiers with a single spell.

Snarling, the white dragon shook his head violently. Normally he'd never be so negative, but with that gods-forsaken _stench _following him-

_The wards are lifted and dragons can breathe fire. _**_I _**_can breathe fire._

Turning away from the enchanted water, Eragon retraced his steps back to the cavern he and Saphira had shared. There the cloud of putrid decay was strongest, the charred corpses of Helgrind's former occupants having been shoved into the adjacent chamber. Even now, with his uncle's murderers damaged beyond recognition, he growled at their infuriating presence.

When he stopped, the growl reverberated within the massive cavern of his chest. Something dormant stirred furiously, a hot and powerful heat bubbling up in the back of his throat, threatening to overwhelm completely. Like the fateful day at Yazuac, where he had first called upon his magic, a force beckoned him to _act._

Traditional magic could no longer serve as an outlet for such a primal power. On a whisper of instinct, Eragon parted his jaws and loosed the torrent.

_Searing _blue light surged forth from his jaws on their own accord, a wild inferno guided only by the reflexive curl of his tongue. Eragon recoiled in shock at the unexpected force, the plume of flame faltering.

Common sense told him his mouth should be _burning _or blackened beyond recognition from the fire. Yet, despite the intense heat his mind registered, he felt no pain. He could almost call the warmth _pleasant, _a warm hearth on a cold winter's night.

The ravenous flames engulfed the bodies of the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka in a brilliant blaze. Their charred carcasses were visible for just a moment, illuminated against the blue flame, before they crumbled into nothing.

Eragon swiftly snapped his jaws shut, the torrent spluttering out in a puff of smoke and sparks. He gaped in disbelief as the heat in his throat subsided.

After only a moment's exposure to the flames, even the hard shell had been reduced to ash. He prodded the pile suspiciously, sending fine particles up into the air. Inhaling his former enemies, Eragon sneezed, adding a new scorch-mark to the already blackened ground.

Eragon had witnessed Saphira turn her fire-breath into a deadly art, sculpting rock into masterpieces and cooking soldiers alive in their chain-mail. During nocturnal practice sessions, Glaedr had set the night sky alight with flames that rivaled the sun in their heat and radiance. The eternal fires blazing beneath the Burning Plains had been started during a clash between Riders' dragons and the Forsworn.

But _never _had he heard of a dragon's flames so powerful, so devastating. Such an intense inferno looked hot to... melt even magic itself.

Snorting, Eragon shook his head. Even _he _didn't buy such a farfetched theory.

_But Saphira and I woke to discover those bastards dead. If the wards protecting them from fire could __**only **__be broken with their deaths, then __**who **__killed and burnt them?_

Gazing at the carnage he had created, Eragon backed away from the scorch-marked earth, shaking the ash from his moon-white scales.

Had _he _killed these creatures? He last remembering blacking out when the all-consuming rage and desire to kill and protect had overwhelmed his consciousness. A similar incident had happened back in Yazuac to two Urgals. Could that same power have possessed him again, transforming him into a dragon capable of burning magic itself into nothing?

_Was this some __**gift **__from the Blood-Oath Ceremony? An innate Rider defense mechanism? _A chill seeped into his bones that numbed even his new inner fire. _Or is this always been there, needing only Saphira to awaken?_

Padding away from the unsettling sight, Eragon curled up in the recent chamber, where the stench of decay was already dissipating. He closed his eyes in renewed exhaustion, spiraling down into a thankfully dreamless oblivion.

* * *

_Weighted down by sin and sorrow, his soul had been too heavy to ascend. Around him the scavengers gathered, ripping into his broken body even as he dangled between two worlds. Every ravenous bite gnawed the tether just a little bit more, lowering him to open jaws that preferred spirit to flesh._

_Until the weight upon his soul had fallen away. Unfurling ethereal wings, he had flown for the final time, to heights that would have killed the strongest fliers, up to where death and decay held no dominion._

_Dragons were not 'civilized' like the ape-creatures. From generations before the first flickers of ancestral memory they had been guided by heart and bond; the bond of mates, of nestmates, of parent and child, ties that had allowed them to come together and prosper while lesser creatures had faded from even their shared recollection._

_Yet, the bonds that strengthened and guided them so had led many souls to their doom. How many previously devoted mothers with new broods had left their hatchlings to starve, forsaking them and life behind to join her fallen mate amongst the stars? How many long-dead ancestors had perished in suicidal battles by their clan-lord's command? How many had been willing to turn against their own kind simply by their Rider's whim?_

_Even dragons, those who could stubbornly hold grudges centuries after death, knew forgiveness. At the end, even he, who had vowed to do whatever necessary to free his kind from tyranny, had sickened at the unthinkable costs._

_Like all souls, he had been granted one merciful reprieve. For just once, murder and treachery had been overlooked._

_But forgiven didn't mean forgotten. While his compatriots enthralled the world below even as their true origins faded into memory and myth, he had been barely visible against their radiance, darkened by the past. Where some souls shined for centuries, his warm welcome had cooled in less than one._

_Thrown from the heavens like a fledgling from the nest, he had breathed again._

_No. Someone that had __**once **__been part of him breathed and learned and lived. He had slumbered, dreamless, within, a mere fragment of a fully-developed human soul._

_Occasionally, roused by his host's distress, he would stir to a half-wakened state, a 'conscience' in times of need. When the cruel boys bullied his host, he was the brave voice that whispered to stand up against their taunts. When his host's best friend had became the favorite of the girl his host admired from afar, he had urged him to take action, be it confronting his friend or acknowledging his claim upon the girl by abandoning his own feelings. Beyond such extreme anger or envy, he had been virtually helpless, a quiet influence that could be easily brushed aside._

_But the tides had changed. A young man had come to the Varden, one who came to be called Shadeslayer. This was Eragon, bonded of Saphira, the last free Dragon Rider in all of Alagaesia. His host idolized Eragon like he (the dragon) had once worshiped his own elder brother. Yet, he stirred fretfully, for something was very, very __**wrong**__._

_Eragon's she-dragon, Saphira, dredged up half-memories of bloody white and sapphire. His unrest had manifested as nightmares for his host, visions of a life not his own._

_Yet, for all of Saphira's awe-inspiring glory, her Rider had been the final catalyst._

_His host had always admired his role model from afar, too timid to approach. Only when delivering a message from superiors did his host finally look Eragon Shadeslayer in the eye._

_The Rider's brown eyes had been kind, those that could have belonged to a boy one day worthy of legend. He had looked further, beyond the brown, to the spark of brilliant blue that smoldered just underneath. In Jarsha's mind, that spark caught alight._

_Jarshan awoke, truly awoke, and Jarshan __**remembered**__._

_The price he had paid for peace had been impossibly high, and he had settled his debt with his life. Though many had condemned the extreme lengths he had went to achieve justice, they had not rejected his cause, __**their **__cause. While Eridor had pandered to the Riders and their facade of equality, Jarshan had undoubtedly stood for them, the dragons who had been willingly sold into slavery by their parents._

_And now his sacrifice, __**their **__sacrifice, would all be in vain. Eragon Shadeslayer, King Eridor's spiritual extension, would erase their efforts and reestablish the tyranny they had destroyed. And with Saphira the last female of her kind, __**every**__ youngling hatched into the world would become slaves to another race's interest, be they human or elf._

_And, stuffed into a body not his own, with an atrophied part of his own soul for a cellmate and jailer, Jarshan rattled bars of flesh and bone and roared his anguish and fury to his only possible listener-_

Screaming, Jarsha thrashed desperately on his sleeping mat, falling still only when his mind caught up. Panting heavily, he groped for his blanket, a solid anchor to reality, as he shakily separated fact from fiction.

_No scales, right? _He glanced down at his clammy hands. Pale pink, as always, without gray scales and cruel claws. _And no wings? _He felt his back, sighing in relief at smooth shoulder-blades. _Tail? Snout? Horns? _Feverishly rubbing his hands over his face, Jarsha finally dropped them. He was just a normal thirteen-year-old boy, different from the beast of his nightmares as he could possibly be.

"Er... are you okay?"

Face flushing, Jarsha glanced over at his newest tent-mate. Nolfavrell had been one of the refugees that had arrived with the Shadeslayer's cousin. While the Council of Elders weren't about to conscript one so young as a soldier, an extra messenger could always be needed, and had shoved him into the same cramped tent with Jarsha and Irvard, the other two young pages.

"I'll be fine," Jarsha muttered testily. "What happened to Irvard?"

"Still on his shift," Nolfavrell replied, "but you'll have to relieve him soon."

Nodding, Jarsha reached for his tunic, scowling when he noticed the other boy's concerned eyes still on him. He wondered what Nolfavrell thought of him; alarmingly pale, slathered in sweat, gasping as if he had just outrun death itself.

_Well, maybe I did._

"What?" Jarsha snapped.

"There are healers here, you know," the other boy said neutrally. "With magic. They helped me... get over what was bothering me."

Jarsha knew the gossip. Nolfavrell's father had been killed by Imperial soldiers occupying the village. Then they had taken the body with them, returning it hours later as _cracked-open bones _once the demonic Ra'zac had eaten their fill. That was enough to scar any child, let alone one barely past childhood!

For a moment, Jarsha faltered, wanting to only finally come clean about the monster that had _always been_ stalking his nightmares.

_Always different from the others, always dreaming of blood and dragons, even before the nightmares worsened, and I can't even blame trauma! But they'll fade, they always do._

"I'm gonna grab some breakfast," he ground out, ducking out and emerging into their empty row of tents.

Something thudded heavily against his ribs, a bird frantically beating the bars of its cage, trapped and starving for the light of freedom. Clutching his chest in physical and imagined pain, Jarsha cried tears of desperation not his own.

* * *

_Come on, little one, you're almost finished!_

Eragon couldn't help his irritated growl. He had eaten meat before, had killed for himself and his family when the crops they grew couldn't sustain them, at least until Oromis had made him sensitive to their vibrant (if primitive) thoughts. Too bad dragons didn't digest vegetation well (as Saphira could personally attest to after Du Weldenvarden.)

Saphira had thoughtfully caught his first formerly living meal in months for him, had even roasted and gutted for him to help with the painful and inevitable transition to raw meat. Still, his stomach had quenched uneasily with every bite of an innocent creature.

_I am finished, _he protested weakly. _I'm stuffed!_

The she-dragon snorted skeptically, releasing twin puffs of smoke from her nostrils. _Eragon, you're bigger than I am now! When I'm famished, I need __**two **__large bucks to feel like myself again. You haven't had any food for days and are no doubt drained from your transformation. You. Will. Finish. One._

_But I-_

_You missed the head,_ Saphira answered sternly. _They're of the most nutritious parts of the body. Just be glad I didn't make you crack open the bigger bones for their marrow._

No, Saphira had done that for him, unable to waste something she saw as invaluable. Eragon had watched her guiltily, feeling like a spoiled child who had turned his nose up at the food his parents had struggled to put upon his plate.

His blue-brown eyes flickered down to meet the deer's vacant gaze. Snapping up the remnants of his meal, he quickly swallowed before his mind had a chance to resist.

_There. _Saphira pressed her snout encouragingly against his cheek. _Was it really that bad?_

Eragon refused to reply. His new body hadn't minded in the slightest. Unsatisfied, his stomach gurgled commandingly for more. Only his mind, which had touched the gentle minds of deer, squirmed at what his body happily digested.

Noticing his discomfort, Saphira pulled away, dropping the subjected completely. _Come. Now that we're both rested, it's time for a final lesson before we can return to camp._

_Oh?_ Eragon's scales prickled in dread. _And what would that be?_

The she-dragon hummed in amusement, the deep sound vibrating pleasantly in his bones. _Why, teaching you to fly, stone-head!_

Eragon froze, stomach falling. He had forgotten about that.

**On Jarshan: Dragons are creatures of passion, and if they believe their cause to be right, then they're gonna stick by it 'til the bitter end, which is why every dragon soul gets a second chance to earn a "true" place in the stars through rebirth. In the words of TvTropes, Jarshan has become more of a Knight Templar and Visionary Villain than a straight bad guy driven by petty vengeance and ambition. Also, kindly remember, that _he woke up when is worst fears are about to come true, sharing a body NOT his own with a TOTAL stranger. _I'd be pretty upset about that.**

**On "shades of gray": Galbatorix obviously had _more _than twelve Forsworn and some monsters on his side, so I sincerely doubt the Riders were the saints everyone remembers them as. The Dragon Riders were wiped out one hundred years ago. Humans have had plenty of time to miss "the good old days" when they weren't dominated by a mad tyrant. And _of course _elves are gonna be for the Riders! But I doubt their public opinion was so favorable a century ago for three reasons. **

**1.) Where elves got immortality and magic that turned them into walking atomic bombs, dragons got "language" and "civilization." How many dragon cities and scholars are there? What's happening to those dragons without Riders? (Jarshan's main reason to be pissed.)**

2.) Dwarves remember the Riders as "meddling," because somehow a dragon-elf-human pact saw need to govern everyone in the name of "peace." Kindly look up colonialism in the Middle East and Africa to see how clueless foreign leadership can screw _**everything **_**up for a society. If you want to leave Rider "protection?" 'Philippine-American War' is the one that sticks out most. Also, if Riders brought peace and knowledge to the world, why is everyone still in the damned Dark Ages?**

3.) _**Who the hell did the Riders answer to? **_**The Caretakers who looked after their bond? The rulers who would have to enforce their laws? Did non-Riders have a say in how they should be governed? (Elections for their ruling council, deciding which candidates to be sent for testing, ect.) I'd be pretty pissed if I didn't have any say in something that sounds a lot like certain Middle Eastern countries...**


	8. Act I: Chapter 5: Flight Updated

**9/10 Update: God, it's been so long, but I have three revised chapters for this time! This chapter should hopefully cut down on some redundancy in my prose, explain my twist on some parts of establish cannon, and close up some plot-holes.**

**Disclaimer: ****_The Inheritance Cycle _****does not belong to me... but my individual book copies and all original material here do :D.**

Standing at the very edge of the threshold, Eragon peered cautiously over the edge of Helgrind. It was a sheer drop down to the jagged rocks below, each more likely to break _him _than his fall. Wings tucked closely to the sides and claws holding the ground in a death-grip, he could barely hear Saphira over his own frantic thoughts.

_Eragon! _Saphira snapped, wrenching the white dragon's horrified gaze away from the distant ground. _Are you even listening to me?_

He sheepishly avoided her piercing stare. _Not really, _he admitted. _I'm a bit distracted at the thought of being impaled like a heretic!_

_Impaled like- _Her mind briefly touched his memory of a rather unpleasant discussion with Brom before withdrawing in horror. _...Another good reason to get away from these damned mountains, then. _At Eragon's continued hesitance, she rolled her eyes in exasperation. _Don't tell me you're afraid of heights now._

Eragon snorted indignantly. _If I was terrified of heights or of flying, I don't think I would have ever left Carvahall after that first nightmare. _But flying on his _own _power was completely different from riding astride an experienced dragon. Especially if that dragon was no longer strong enough to drag him back to safety.

_Flying isn't as difficult or frightening as it looks, little one, _Saphira began patiently. _Hatchlings are often able to get the hang of it within their first few tries._

Eragon glanced dubiously down at certain death. _Something tells me we won't have that many chances._

_Most hatchlings have parents to guide them in the right direction. I may... not have had that advantage, but it doesn't mean you can't._

Thinking about it, Eragon was positive Saphira would make a great mother... if she survived his soon-to-be lethal crash. There was a huge difference between redirecting a small dragon and a massive adult male.

Saphira nuzzled him encouragingly, nothing but positive advice flowing across her link. _Remember, Eragon, you're a dragon internally as well as externally. Your new instincts (which I hope you have) will guide you, as well as (possibly) the ancestral memories of all dragons who lived before you. Concentrate, and you'll feel just how the masters did it._

Complying, Eragon focused his thoughts inward, forgetting all else. The shrieking wind and Saphira's assuring presence gradually dimmed into nothingness. Alone amidst years of his memories, he burrowed past his time as a Dragon Rider, past his childhood, exploring this section of his subconscious deeper than he ever had ventured before.

As time blurred and further distorted recognition, Eragon expected to hit an impenetrable wall, an end to all memory. Instead he entered a part of his mind that had not existed previous to his transformation. There, his memories were but one small whisper in a cavern that echoed with countless voices.

Eragon reached out, touching a barrier not unlike the one that had contained his magic, beckoning him onward. Concentrating, Eragon gently pushed, and unleashed the deluge.

Out erupted a maelstrom of memory wild as his flames. Colors blurred, scent and sound became indistinguishable, fragments of ancient conversation whipping through one metaphorical ear and out the other. The memories tugged at him like impatient children, begging him to join in their individual games. Amidst such glorious chaos, a mere human mind would have been overwhelmed, swept away like a tiny fish against the sea.

But he was a dragon now, a strong voice reminded him. They _(parents, nestmates, allies) _were as much a part of him _(brother, son, friend) _as Saphira (_bonded, soul-half, life-mate_). Unable to control himself, Eragon roared. He _understood _this greater presence, a universal connection transcending petty differences, a wonderful unity yet separation he had never before been able to comprehend.

Concentrating, Eragon narrowed his criteria down to _flight, _diminishing the torrent somewhat. Mating flights, hunting flights, first flights, flying for the sheer joy of it, flashed through his mind like lightning. He was unattached to the emotions attached to each one, an apathetic god gazing down upon the mortal world. The memories were too indistinct to care about or even tell apart.

Out of the chaos rose a trace of familiarity. The most demanding of the children, it tugged urgently at him. Eragon allowed himself to be pulled along, the other memories falling away like shadows before the sunlight. The dizzying blur condensed into crystal clear perfection.

The memory molded him, making him its _bearer _instead of a casual observer. Boundaries blurred, realities faded, time itself turned backward. He was no longer Eragon _(Rider, blood-brother, protector), _but someone else completely (_daunted, scared, longing, oh so longing..._

_He stood on a precipice that sharply veered away to certain doom, claws clenching the edge in a death-grip. The buffeting wind tore at the wings he kept tightly pressed against his side, a howling wife trying to drag him into its waiting jaws._

_Yet his little wings ached to be spread, to fulfill their one true purpose. His pounding heart demanded to claim the sky as their rightful domain. But his mind sternly insisted his trembling wings and yearning heart that it best for all four paws to be safely kept upon the ground. Flying was for mighty elders, not for little hatchlings more likely to be shredded by the wind than to soar upon it._

_His three brood-sisters cowered behind him, their living shield between fear and desire. One shoved him forward, a test subject. Whipping around, he snarled furiously at his pesky-coward-sister, batting a white paw warningly at her jade-green snout._

_His little stone-gray-brother remained right behind him. Eyes closed, he peeped nervously, too afraid to even gaze upon temptation. Nuzzling his shivering brother, he looked pleadingly around him._

_Mother hovered just outside the cave, even she dwarfed by a void of blue and white. Her mind gently brushed against all five of her hatchlings, promising them safety-and-soft-landings._

_Father stood behind them, stone-gray and unmovable as the mountain they called resting-home. He blocked the way to their safe-sleeping-nest. His Kingly-red gaze reminded them they'd either join their mother willingly or be shoved into the awesome-endless-sky-and-shrieking-wind by his callous paw._

_Wolf-wind sky-dangers or smoldering-impatient-Father. He shivered indecisively, torn between known and unknown. _

_Father-King snorted ominously, and the decision was made._

_His three brood-sisters leaped aside. Crying shrilly, his brood-brother followed, aware of-_

_He heard it; the scraping of scales against stone, the creaking of old joints, the thunderous growl of impatience._

_Self-preservation kicked in. Wings unfurled. Paws abandoned solid earth as he hurled himself into the unknown._

_The howling-wolf-winds forcefully pinned his wings to his sides. He powerlessly plummeted to earth. Squealing, he was only dimly aware of his nestmates' cries, Mother just behind him, ready with an open-forgiving paw._

_His gaze focused. Father-King's scarred head emerged from the cave, prey-blood-red eyes burning, __**challenging**__._

_Inside his heart-of-hearts, a soul-fire kindled._

_Fighting against the wind-wolf, he snapped his wings open, squealing in surprised pain as their muscles protested. The gale carried him up, up past shocked-Mother, past awed-nestmates, past red eyes burning with fierce-fire-pride._

_Blurs of white, green, and gray tumbled into the air excitedly after him. Mother gently caught flustered-brood-brother in a paw when he dipped too law._

_Uncaring, he surged up past them all, free for the first time in his young-hatchling-life. He roared his triumph to the conquered skies, not yet a mighty-elder, but on his-_

Memory released him. Eragon blinked, reluctantly emerging back into reality. Saphira hummed proudly, blue eyes as proud as Father-King's had been.

_Saphira, _he whispered breathlessly, _that was... _He struggled for a suitable word. Finding none, he simply sent his emotions across their link.

Her eyes sparkled. _How can there be words for it? I take it you don't find it all that bad, being a dragon?_

_Bad?_ Eragon repeated disbelievingly. _How can __**that **__be bad? The closest I ever came to it before was the dragon from the Blood-Oath Ceremony, and they're still so different! But why- _

_Why did one memory come clearly to you above all others? When it became so strong you became its bearer? _Eragon nodded. _There have been countless generations of dragons, too many for any other creature to even begin to process our ancestral memories. Our minds cope by subconsciously reaching out for ones they feel comfortable with, a soul and situation it can currently relate to. Like how a child will reach out for anything familiar in a strange new place._

_Some part of the memory were strange. Not thoughts, but not fully words either._

Eragon tried to show her his vision, but the fine details slipped his grasp like water through fingers. Exasperated, he showed Saphira what he could. The she-dragon observed for a moment before nodding. Reluctantly, Eragon released the memory, feeling it sink back into the void of countless others.

_A hatchling's first flight from somewhere in the Beors, _she surmised. _I can see why you can relate. His mind was still learning how to identify thoughts and feelings he knew with specific language. Those clustered words were his attempt to do so with the things he knew dearest; parents, siblings, familiar surroundings. It would take a before before he felt 'brat' would suffice for 'pesky-coward-sister.'_

The white dragon nodded, silently wondering what had happened to hatchling in his vision, and hoping he had hatched centuries before Galbatorix's birth. He glanced at the edge again. The hatchling had suffered taller heights.

_At least no one's going to push me off, _Eragon muttered. _Might as well get this over with._

Unfurling her wings, Saphira leaped with the grace of a pouncing cat. Much like the mother she-dragon, she hovered off vigilantly to the side, leaving plenty of room for take-off. And there she stayed, ready to do her damned best at slowing his fall if he did screw up.

Eragon positioned himself on the center of the edge, refusing to glimpse down. He partly unfolded his wings, allowing the wind to rush over them.

Unlike the shrieking gale from the hatchling's memory, the winds were gentle, a soft breeze caressing his scales. It teased him out further onto the ledge. Feeling only empty air beneath his claws, his heart quivered in frantic excitement.

_Come on, little one. Did you hesitate in plunging a sword through Durza's heart?_

He snorted indignantly at the blow to his fiery new pride. Saphira's tone was an invitation to join her in h- _their _element. And who was he to deny her?

His heart lurched upward as his paws bid Helgrind farewell, then plunged against his ribcage as gravity wrestled for dominance, the jagged rocks below ever sharper-

Thrust after painful thrust, his untrained wings carried him higher and higher. Helgrind's looming presence shrank to a black dot soon swallowed by the clouds. Only with Alagaesia stretched out before him did he jar to a halt, barely managing a wobbling hover as Saphira steadily rose up to his level. Yet, even leagues below him ,his sharp eyes made out every scale on her shimmering hide, every ounce of pride and exhilaration shining in her eyes.

_Quite a sight, isn't it? _she mused, effortlessly circling him. _I would have shown you sooner, but human lungs can't handle such heights._

Minutes later, Eragon nodded before pausing in embarrassment. Saphira swam through the air as a fish did water. He hovered frantically in one spot, beating his wings like a frantic hummingbird and without the slightest idea how to get back _down. _

_Uh, Saphira, can you help-_

_Teach you how to steer before you crash? _

Were it possible, his scales would have flushed scarlet. _...Aye. _

Saphira's laughter rippled across their link. _Trust me, Eragon, compared to mine your first flight is going fantastically!_

The white dragon blinked in astonishment. Between household tasks and keeping his relatives distracted, Eragon had seen little of his own dragon during her most crucial period of development. One day she was crawling her way up to every great height, including his shoulder, the next she had fluttered up without a stumble.

_Really?_

_I was sneezing pine needles for days, _the she-dragon answered sulkily. _I just held them in when you where around._

Eragon tried to smile, pulling off a terrifying grimace. He remembered that! _So __**that's **__why you were too afraid to touch the forest floor afterward!_

_Afraid! I merely flapped from branch to branch, perfecting my-_

His guffawing left him stranded miles above solid ground until his grovelling finally brought his touchy teacher back. Whiling struggling to propel himself forward, Eragon silently filed the story away for the next time he and Saphira were both stone-cold drunk amongst the dwarves. At least _they _wouldn't fawn over her 'valiance' or 'determination' like a certain race to the north!

* * *

Legend remembered Ilirea as an outpost of the godlike Dragon Riders, the last elvish stronghold outside of Du Weldenvarden. While all cities had flourished in the peace and prosperity of the golden age, Ilirea had been the crown jewel of Alagaesia. It was straight out of a fairy tale, with elegant buildings carved as carefully as the trees-buildings had been sung in Ellesmera. And with Doru Araeba across the sea and the elf capital forbidden to most outsiders, it was the only city of legend many could ever lay eyes upon.

Ilirea's last inhabitants had fought long and hard against the invaders pounding at their gates. Despite what most historians grumbled, Galbatorix had demolished very little of a city virtually razed to the ground in the clashes between his supporters and the enemy faction.

Atop the rubble of his conquest, the self-proclaimed king had founded his own new capital. With wave after wave of rebels still assaulting Galbatorix's forces, construction had been quick and bloody. Decades later, Urubaen's brutal and no-nonsense architecture still spoke of the Empire's violent beginnings, even when all whispers of rebellion were swiftly stifled behind its walls.

Only Castle Ilirea had survived the old capital's destruction. Even then, its towering spires and graceful carvings had been cannibalized into newer, more practical defenses.

Those of Urubaen remembered Castle Ilirea no longer; only the fully-fledged Fortress it had become in the time of their forefathers. And there their King resided, eternal as his Fortress, as the very ground it was built upon.

Galbatorix had claimed the heart of the Fortress for his own throne-room and personal chambers. Here every wall was etched in wards to cancel out virtually all magic it did not recognize. Aspiring assassins that could penetrate such powerful defenses faced patrols of sharp-minded magicians sworn to kill all intruders on sight, even if the person in question was but a visiting lord who had absentmindedly turned down the wrong hallway.

For those cunning and determined enough to make it past his unmatched security? Galbatorix granted them the final honor of becoming Shruikan's latest meal.

And there, in his Fortress's heart, the Black King himself lounged upon his throne, scratching thoughtfully at his well-trimmed beard.

Over-exaggerated, indirect accounts described Galbatorix as anything from a horned, green-skinned demon to an eternally young man handsome enough to make the mountains of Helgrind weep. (Galbatorix had ordered his Black Hand to spare no mercy on whoever had started _that _rumor... if only to keep the crowd of the insane women blubbering at his gates from growing any larger.)

Of average height and build, with an indistinct face and plain brown hair, Galbatorix was as forgettable as they came, capable of blending into any crowd with a mere change of stance and clothing. Only his eyes, black and empty voids, could engender such terror and awe in his subjects.

"Hn," he mused aloud. "When have the Ra'zac contacted me last? Their silence is... worrisome."

Dead white eyes blinked listlessly back. Galbatorix nodded, one hand patting the massive black wall of scale and muscle that encircled his throne. "You're right, not in quite a while. Since before the incident, in fact."

His treasure trove, his personal favorite amongst them, so dull and lifeless for decades, had all blazed bright as stars. Their chorus, a unified thrum of pure joy, had carried his heart to heights no living dragon could touch. Only twice before had they sung; the first but a year ago, when the she-dragon presumably hatched, and some months later when Thorn finally hatched for a Rider, confirming Galbatorix's hunch. Each and every dragon soul, dead and dormant for decades in their Eldunarya, had rejoiced for a member of their kind entering the world.

But _how, why _had they sung again but mere days ago? The last surviving egg of King Eridor and his mate, the last dragon's egg in the world, remained dormant in its hiding place. Galbatorix and his Forsworn had scoured the world for decades in search of unaccounted survivors.

There. Were_. None. _

"The she-dragon couldn't have laid any more eggs," Galbatorix muttered to his only companion. "It is too soon after the battle, and she certainly was not gravid then! Besides, how could any but you or Thorn have sired them? And there are no more eggs. _There cannot be._"

Were his Eldunarya trying to trick him into believing a fifth dragon had entered the fray? To lead him on a fool's errand while the she-dragon and her Rider prepared for a suicidal offense against his Empire?

Impossible. No Eldunari could shield any thought or feeling from their King, and he had sensed no deception on their part, nothing but their unadulterated joy.

"Do you remember how those last few Riders tried to deceive _me, _Shruikan? Conveniently leaked information about secret armed caravans. Messengers who'd swear under torture, in the _ancient language, _that Vrael had hidden away an entire cache of eggs?" A savage snarl crossed his eerily-average features. "As if the Order hadn't been running short for _years_, as if their females laid anything _not_ dead and stinking!"

Galbatorix thoughtfully rubbed at the stone embedded into his ring, the only extra ornamentation he ever wore. It was simple, no more than a plain silver band. But the stone was like nothing that had been ever mined from the earth, nothing like even a dwarf had laid eyes upon. Shaped like an onyx-black diamond, it emanated its own dull violet light, giving his hand an unnatural tinge.

The wall of scales shifted anxiously behind him. Galbatorix patted them soothingly.

"Forgive me, Shruikan, I always forget how sensitive you are." Clenching his hand into a fist, he smashed the glowing stone against the arm of his throne. Shruikan roared in agony, shaking the very walls of the Fortress.

Galbatorix braced instinctively for the pain, a shared suffering that should have sent a Rider screaming alongside his dragon. But, for their bond, for the black dragon's mindless obedience, Shruikan was _no _Jarnunvosk, and Galbatorix shared his soul only with a beloved partner now long-dead.

Sighing, the King of Alagaesia turned to look at his greatest prize.

Shruikan, the dread dragon himself, lay curled around his throne, shackled to the wall by magically-enforced chains. The demon capable of striking fear into countless hearts at the mere mention of his name looked as pathetic as a kicked dog. Years of starvation and inactivity had left him a living skeleton. His open, panting mouth revealed rows of fangs broken and yellowed from neglect. His white eyes, unbroken by irises or pupils, stared emptily ahead.

"Such suffering," Galbatorix lamented. "Even if it is for the best."

For his own safety, Shruikan had to be restrained. Though Galbatorix held his very heart, he had gradually built up enough resistance to anything less than complete concentration, inflicting gruesome scars upon himself before he could be stopped. Shruikan was unleashed only for sparring sessions with Thorn or to renew the public's fears, when Galbatorix could keep him under his full control.

Not to mention a massive black dragon made a tempting target for any rebel magician. Just because Galbatorix _felt _nothing of Shruikan didn't mean a true bond wasn't there; numbed, but as powerful as any true bond between Rider and dragon. And Galbatorix would take no chances on finding out if breaking their artificial bond shared the same lethal potency.

Galbatorix ran his ring hand along the dragon's hide. Beneath his fingers Shruikan quivered violently, achingly close to his heart of hearts but infinitely far. "Do you remember yours kinsmen, deaf and blind in their Eldunarya?" The king looked his dragon straight in one dead eye. "Even now, pathetic as you are, you're above them. Yet, still _you _sang..."

The void of his black eyes somehow deepened. "When you remained silent for the others."

Shruikan lay motionless. But the conquered mind in the black Eldunari stirred, gathering the energy to push a small section of memory behind paper-thin barricades.

Galbatorix smiled patronizingly, the way an adult would at a young child's artwork. It would take but one prod of a mental finger to topple the dragon's defenses, and yet...

"Ah, dragons, so much stronger in spirit than even the most resilient dwarf, the proudest elf. Beaten down and broken as you are, Shruikan, your fire burns." He chuckled fondly. "Go ahead. Keep your secret. The suspense will just make the surprise ever sweeter."

The Black King rose from his throne. There was work to be done, especially regarding his very rebellious (or perhaps, very dead) Ra'zac. Murtagh would certainly appreciate another mission to distract from his rather _pitiful _defeat at the Burning Plains.

At the threshold, Galbatorix turned back. Shruikan's physical body was as still and unresponsive as always. Inside his Eldunari, however, his mind was sharper than it had been in ages, the heat of his hatred almost, _almost _hot enough to burn.

"Enjoy this while you can, my dear Shruikan." Smiling wryly, Galbatorix craned his head upward toward the ceiling. "The stars are going out, but my trove remains as bright as ever. Perhaps this one more soul will finally put me ahead."

**1. I experimented with the whole 'ancestral memory' scene this time around. Those italicized words in the parentheses were supposed to represent the numerous ****_feelings _****behind the words, as Eragon had the whole of dragon history whooshing through his head. The scene from the hatchling's memory had some funky descriptions to emphasize my theory on how dragons learn to communicate: Feelings and images first, then starting to condense that vagueness into more 'precise' language before simplifying something like 'pesky-coward-sister' to 'bitch.'**

**It's also why Saphira's POV from ****_Brisingr _****irked me so much. She's a mature adult capable of speaking without the hyphenated prose, so why the hell throw it in then?**

**2. Confused about my stance a ****_certain something _****hidden on Vroengard and Galbatorix's ideas about it? Please go back and read the foreshadowing I left to the dragons' ultimate fate, and why such a Deux Ex Machina is ****_certainly _****not possible in this AU.**

**3. Expect the Galbatorix here to ****_vastly _****change in character from the one in my original chapters. Why? My inspiration for his character has changed. To me, he's more like a mix of King Haggard-Darcia than... whatever he was before XD. And did any one catch my little dig at the fan girls that are always attracted to the villains, no matter homicidal or outright insane they are XD.**

**4. Yes, this time I gave Galbatorix some very good reasons to leave his very scary dragon completely out of shape XD. First, Shruikan's death may wind up harming or even killing him. Second, Shruikan can resist his influence ****_just _****enough to severely harm himself if not kept ****restrained. Galbatorix needs full concentration to keep Shruikan safely under control, such as during training sessions with Thorn and Murtagh. Most of the time it's just easier to keep him locked up.**


	9. Act I: Chapter 6: Answers Updated

**9/10 Edit: In comparison to its predecessor, chapter satisfied me immensely. However, to drive the point home, things may get a little... unpleasant further in.**

**Disclaimer: ****_The Inheritance Cycle _****ain't mine. However, all material you don't recognize as Chris Paolini's belongs to me.**

**WARNING: Large italicized block of text is a disturbing memory with graphic and possibly disturbing imagery! Squeamish readers are recommended to skip it, and reminded that there are far, far worse stories on this site also rated T.**

Even from above, the Burning Plains was more terrible than Saphira had remembered. The landscape was charred and smoking, dotted with dead vegetation and the rare plume of flame. Sulfur spilled forth from vast gaps in the earth, making her lungs ache for the _far _fresher air of Helgrind. She and Eragon flew above the noxious clouds, their thickness shielding them from curious eyes below.

Glaring, Saphira strained to see beyond the eye-watering veil of clouds. The Varden's line of tents was just visible in the distance, the Imperial camp remnants too far beyond it to be spotted.

_This is where we part ways... for now, _she told her Rider-turned-dragon. _Any further and you'll be sensed by the stronger Du Vrangr Gata magicians. _

Eragon gazed past her, blue-brown eyes widening in dread. Though Saphira's initial wariness had faded, she still couldn't help but flinch at his unnatural gaze. The human brown in his irises had gradually succumbed to the brilliant blue since Eragon's transformation. Would the change still be reversible if all her Rider's 'humanity' was lost?

_Are you sure this a good idea, Saphira? _the white dragon pressed anxiously. _The Varden see me as their last chance against the Empire and Galbatorix fears an enemy who may one day hope to best him in battle. I don't think I'll be doing us any favors by telling the world I can't even use my own magic! That I'm as powerless- _Saphira snorted indignantly- _as any mere dragon!_

_Which is why we're keeping our circle of confidants limited, _Saphira replied briskly. _Arya has more knowledge on magic than all the Du Vrangr Gata, possibly excluding Trianna, combined! Who else could possibly find a way to reverse the spell without dragging anyone from Du Weldenvarden into this? And we swore allegiance to Nasuada, we have no choice __**but **__to tell her. Besides, at least she can keep those other damned politicians away! And Roran is your nestmate and bond-brother, so..._

The sapphire she-dragon trailed off as she got one good look at her Rider. Eragon looked practically ready to faint in mid-air.

_Not Roran, _Eragon whispered. _I remember when he discovered I was a Dragon Rider... No longer a normal human... _His tremulous voice steadied somewhat. _No, Roran, never needs to know about this. Not until I'm firmly back on two feet, anyway._

Wishing their beating wings weren't in the way of physical contact, Saphira enveloped his mind in a comforting embrace. _Forgive me, little one. It shall only be Nasuada and Arya. We can't afford to keep either of them in the dark._

Eragon silently pealed away from her side, all the permission she needed.

Folding her wings, Saphira plummeted from the clouds. She made no attempt to disguise her return, bellowing loudly and sending a tongue of flame streaking through the air. Men poured forth from their tents, cheering at what they presumed to be the safe and triumphant return of their revered Dragon Rider.

As Saphira neared, the joyed expressions faltered when they saw her back bare of any passengers, Shadeslayers or not. Most men were bewildered, but some paled in fear or even boiled in outrage. Spreading her wings, Saphira slowed her descent, making no effort to land past the swelling crowd. People scrambled frantically to give her room, all too used to the drill. As she gracefully touched down, she mutely challenged the throng with a cool stare. None had the courage to answer the question on everyone's mind.

Until the crowd parted, allowing Lady Nasuada through. Arya was not far behind, nimbly weaving through a forest of stunned bodies. While both women carried themselves serenely, Saphira easily saw through years of careful conditioning. Nasuada's jaw was clenched tightly shut. Arya's emerald eyes had darkened with worried confusion.

"Saphira Brightscales?" Nasuada began primly, the overwhelming curiosity simmering just beneath. "What has befallen the Shadeslayer this time?"

The blue she-dragon lowered her head, looking the two women straight in the eyes. Carefully barricading her memories to curious prods, she projected her words only to them. _Forgive my rudeness, Lady Nasuada, Arya Drottningu, but I am not at liberty to discuss my Rider so freely. At least, not here. _She glanced at the crowd. _Fetch my saddle and I shall take you to him, upon my honor as a dragon._

Nasuada wasted no time in motioning for her servants. Some frantically hurried back with the leather abomination. Saphira knelt down, suppressing an irritated growl at the cumbersome weight upon her back. The men fixed the straps as best they could with shaking hands. Although they bit into her belly and neck, the she-dragon patiently endured an eternity of waiting.

Arya ascended Saphira's outstretched foreleg with feline grace, taking the spot usually reserved for Eragon. Nasuada stared apprehensively up, but her impressive composure did not allow her to break down in front of her subjects. Despite her pale face, the leader of the Varden climbed up Saphira with as much dignity she could muster, assisted into the saddle by Arya. She primly sat in front of the elf-woman, clutching the spike before her in a death-grip.

Craning her neck around, Saphira respectfully nodded at her latest passengers. _Though I trust you Ladies with my life, dire circumstances have forced me and my Rider to take some extra precautions. Lady Nasuada, you are somewhat familiar with the ancient language, no?_

Nasuada nodded. "Aye." Arya watched the exchange sharply, recalling when two other confused souls had been sworn to a secrecy on the pain of death.

_Then I must ask you both to swear, in the ancient language, to never reveal what you are about to see to any living creature without my or Eragon's explicit permission, even if your very lives are threatened._

"You demand much, Bjartskular," the elf whispered. "Any promise sworn in the ancient language endangers the lives of the oath-takers."

"But we have no other option?" Nasuada finished. At Saphira's grim nod, she sighed. "If only you had warned me _before _I had mounted."

Curiosity and concern overcame caution. With their oaths reluctantly sworn, neither could reveal Eragon's life-threatening new secret without his or his dragon's say-so.

Her Rider's well-being secured, Saphira lifted off as carefully as she could. Nasuada took her first flight in stride, yelping only once when the ground suddenly lurched away.

Saphira morbidly wondered if anyone (particularly Arya) would be so calm and composed when they met the gigantic white dragon Eragon had become.

* * *

Nasuada had not shied away from the strange white dragon, first thinking him a prisoner rescued from Helgrind. Upon learning the truth, she had blinked once before falling upon Eragon, dubiously tugging at his scales and rattling off a stream of questions not even Saphira could keep up with. Eragon gave up answering after the first few, halfheartedly listening to her rant.

Arya stood stoically apart from the others, green eyes never leaving Eragon. As Nasuada and Saphira discussed what was best, she remained unresponsive to their questions, a living and breathing statue.

Eragon was just as uncharacteristically quiet, replying only when addressed directly. He kept his gaze trained down on his paws, unwilling to look neither humanoid, especially Arya, in the eyes. He flexed his claws oddly, as if still expecting the versatility of human fingers.

"So, you remember nothing of the transformation?" Nasuada prompted.

The white dragon nodded with a heavy sigh. _Aye. Just blacking out and waking up like this._

"And you never encountered anything like this before, not even in stories?" she pressed. "A mention of a secret defense for Riders in distress?"

_Nothing. _Eragon raised his head, hopefully meeting Arya's unblinking gaze for the first time. _Do you think you could come up with a spell to change me back? I definitely recall many elves that had changed their appearances at the Blood-Oath Ceremony. Could you do the same thing for me, just on a larger scale?_

_We could always return to Du Weldenvarden, _Saphira suggested practically. _To find experts in transformation... _She exchanged a glance with Eragon. _Or obscure Rider enchantments._

For the first time in minutes, Arya blinked, her expression becoming unreadable. "Eragon... do you remember your days in Du Weldenvarden? How many kind doted and tended to Saphira like zealots worshiping their god?" She paused. "Elves have... always been envious of the dragons. Of their natural immortality, of deep magic beyond even our comprehension, of their freedom in flight, of how they can take but one mate and be satisfied for eternity." Her sighed. "In the ancient times, my forebears almost annihilated them for it. Our pact twisted elven hatred and jealously into something resembling outright reverence."

Saphira shuddered, contrastingly remembering both the elves who had lovingly washed her scales and the Stone of Broken Eggs, where their ancestors had killed members of her kind not yet hatched into the world. Had the elf who had ignited the Du Fyrn Skulblaka envied the dragon he had killed for want of the power he could never have?

"Your point, Arya?" Nasuada muttered, slightly unnerved. "I do not see how this... ancient obsession can help Eragon now."

"Come the days after the Fall," Arya continued tonelessly, "many of my kind sought ways to return the dragons to Alagaesia. We ventured north, far beyond our forests, and scoured the edges of the lands for survivors. When we found none north, some of our bravest returned to the sea, sailing to the ancient realms where the Forsworn's evil had never touched. Those haunted few who returned to us certainly brought _no _dragons with them. As far as even we could determine, four dragons remained in Alagaesia, all soundly in the King's possession."

Except for a single crippled male safely hidden away in Du Weldenvarden with his Rider, not that Nasuada needed to know _that__._

The elf-woman continued, her brows knitting together. "A few of the more... radical elves proposed an extreme solution to our problem. Were we not masters of magic? Did we not have almost boundless energy from the trees at our disposal? Why waste time searching for survivors who weren't there? Why could we not _create_?"

Saphira growled, hackles rising. _Magically creating dragons from willing elves?_

Nasuada clapped her hands over her mouth. "Could it even have been done?" she whispered in horror.

Eragon recalled eccentric elves he had spotted at the Blood-Oath Ceremony; furred like beasts, skins all colors of the rainbow, even one that resembled a humanoid dragon. But if such transformations were possible, where were these elf-dragons?

"I was but a child when the idea was first proposed. In theory, it was possible. We had manipulated magic before to alter out appearances, though far less radically. Elves that transform their bodies always keep a basic build, never straying drastically far from their original forms."

Her pale hands clenched. "It wasn't long until those radicals gained eager support from the noble houses. Queen Islanzadi's approval silenced whatever whispers of protest there had been. Why _not _resort to extreme measures if it meant restoring the dragons and the Dragon Riders? Liberating our people from Galbatorix? Years were spent gathering the hypothetical energy needed for the spells, thoroughly wording the incantations for the utmost precision, developing all that was needed to challenge nature. The most skilled casters were recruited for the spelling. Able-bodied elves flocked for selection."

Arya smiled humorlessly. "After all, _who_ wouldn't want to become the first of a new generation of dragons, a savior of Alagaesia?"

Eragon shivered. _Did you...?_

"Duty called me elsewhere," she replied heavily. "Not that it stopped u-... me from envying those chosen."

For just a moment, the barricades around Arya's memories wavered. Saphira shied away, but not before catching-

_Hair silver as moonlight_, _green eyes bright with excitement and pride, twitching lips barely veiling an eager grin-_

_Sharp brown eyes burning, words growled and accusing, ripping her heart in-_

"The day of reckoning came," Arya intoned. "The chosen volunteers were prepared, the stored energy given to the casters. All of Du Weldenvarden, from its hermits to the Queen herself, gathered to watch. We all hoped for success... some for the next chance to join their ranks. Then..."

Saphira's mind was willingly nudged by Arya's. Reluctantly, Saphira peered with Eragon into the elf's memories, taking great care to focus on the ones she wanted to show. Nasuada, untrained in active mental contact, hung back in polite (and wary) interest.

_It was only natural that she, the sole heir of King Evandar, Islanzadi's most likely successor, was among the privileged few allowed anywhere actually near the casters. She had come dressed for the occasion; formal finery, a circlet, and scales green as the spring foliage._

_Of course Islanzadi had scolded her for succumbing to such an 'infantile' trend, but she was not the only elf who had spelled herself as such. Other nobles and members of her House pressed in close, their eyes riveted to the clearing's center. Scales had become old hat amongst them when dragon-fever had swept across the forest. Anyone who wore them, even their Princess, would soon pale in comparison to the real deal._

_Five elves stood proud and strong in the center. They wore loose and simple clothing only to preserve their modesty. These were the blessed few, personally chosen from the throng of potentials by Queen __Islanzadi to become the first free dragons of the age. The shining beacon to light the way for the rest of their rekindled race. They carried themselves properly, faces serenely stoic even when their eyes glittered with excitement._

_She nodded to the chosen with a princess's grace. Even when she pointedly ignored looking at the silver-haired woman barely able to keep composure._

_Out strode the magicians, their tunics nearly hidden by the glittering jewels draped over them. Such over-precautions were a mere formality, an appeasement for the worried few. The calculations had been checked and rechecked for years. __**Nothing **__could, or would, go wrong. Galbatorix possessed all true dragon eggs left in the world. Failure was no longer an option._

_Perfect silence fell upon the crowd as the casters began to chant. She hung at the edge of her seat, entranced by every carefully-intoned syllable. A part of her and everyone else in the crowd, those who had adored and depended upon the dragons so, sung out in joy. The chosen five stretched out their arms in eager invitation. The silver-haired woman laughed, grinning broadly as her gaze sought out-_

**Cra-ack. Cra-ack. Cra-ack.**

_Overwhelmed, the gems collectively shattered. The ravenous spell reached ever outward, consuming all the energy it latched onto. The sweat-coated casters gritted their teeth in a struggle against their own power. But their magic no longer heeded them... and reached out with insatiable appetite._

_Silently, elf after elf toppled, pale and lifeless husks. Those not paralyzed by shock and fear leaped up to stop the carnage, shouting and screaming and ordering-_

_It was not like she had imagined, the graceful and beautiful ascension from mere elf to majestic dragon. It was hell, monsters ripping themselves forth from terrified forms, destructive and disfiguring. Stricken, a deer before the hunter, she watched every vomit-inducing moment._

_Razor-sharp scales ripped through delicate flesh, unleashing rivers of blood. Cracks like thunder rang as bones rearranged themselves. Elves fell screaming to the ground with bodies no longer able to support them. Skeletal branches emerged from shoulder-blades, the wings of the dead. Terrified cries became huskier, cracked, and gave way to blood-curdling bellows._

_Three of the damned five fell limp as the magicians. One tortured male moaned his death-rattle. All were demons, an unholy blend of elf and dragon. Even the brief, unfortunate survivor was incomplete; without skin or muscle to cover the exposed bone of his twisted legs._

_Her gaze riveted to the fifth form._

_Blood-stained silver hair wreathed a head that sported malformed stumps. Two emerald-green eyes; one slit-pupiled, the other still leaking tears, fixated on her. A twisted hand with two curving nails reached desperately out. A tongue purposefully cut itself on sharpened teeth in frantic attempts at a name. The scales had had erupted from her pale skin were pallid or sickly green._

_Except for those upon her all-too-familiar face. Those had darkened to a vibrant green, one like the spring foliage._

_Numbness fled. Spinning around, she fled, pushing through the frantic crowd. Unlike the damned souls in the clearing, her artificial scales melted easily away, giving way to tear-stained flesh._

_Tears that only worsened at her mother's heart-broken scream._

Saphira snapped back to reality, throwing back her head and giving a keining wail. Eragon shivered as if ready to burst. Nasuada remained gravely silent, their emotions tangible enough for her to sense. Arya kept her eyes shut against the tears, and buried the memory in her vast recollection.

_Gods, _Eragon breathed. _I-I never..._

For once, just once more, her body craved comfort. Saphira pressed close, her head burrowing into the white dragon's side.

Slowly, hesitantly, he draped one silver wing over her vulnerable form.

Her hammering heart quieted, soothed by reinvigorating warmth.

Assurance gave way to embarrassment when Saphira realized she quivered against her Rider's side like a quivering hatchling. Pride demanded she draw away to restore the illusion of strength.

For once, Saphira ignored the instinct. For all her ancestral memories, she was barely a year old, and needed comforting just as much as Eragon. Besides, when would the opportunity for physical contact with her own kind come again any time soon?

"What happened afterward?" Nasuada murmured.

"Our precautions were twigs against the deluge," Arya flatly intoned. "Even the wards shielding the candidates from physical pain shattered from the sheer force the spell unleashed. One survivor perished minutes afterward. His organs were incompatible. The other lived... for a time." Again she blinked away wetness. "Her transformation could neither be reversed nor completed. Not after what had happened. She took her own life four days later."

Saphira bristled in outrage. _Her suffering was prolonged to such a degree?_

"What was there to be done? Most were too afraid to even minorlyy alter themselves for decades. Those arrogant enough to repeat the mistakes of the past suffered their own foolishness. Several elves have been found dead alongside their half-formed creations." Her gaze flicked to the she-dragon. "Then your egg was recovered, and such dramatic measures forgotten in favor of restoring the _true _dragons."

_It happened other times, didn't it? _Eragon fixated one blue-brown eye on her. _Other elves who tried to truly become different animals. Wolves. Falcons. Frogs. _

"Aye. None succeeded. It seemed an unwritten law that a creature could not magically exchange its form for another. Unless they were a naturally shape-shifting being, like a werecat, true transformation remained as impossible as resurrecting the dead... And there is only one exception to that rule."

_The Menoa Tree! The elf who sang herself into the heart of Du Weldenvarden._

Nasuada blinked, wordlessly mouthing the word 'tree' in disbelief. Then her eyes slowly met Eragon's. "And now there are two." She brushed the red dust rom her dress, snapping straight back into her leader state. "Obviously changing you back will have to wait a while. At least until that squad of magicians arrive from Du Weldenvarden. Perhaps one of them shall be an expert in obscure Rider magics, or at least know someone who is."

Eragon and Saphira drooped in dismay. They personally knew a still-living Rider and dragon, and neither had ever mentioned Shur'tugal spontaneously changing shape!

_Then what do we do, my Lady? The Varden are suspicious enough of my absence as is! How will they react at my current condition? Many see dragons as mindless best for the Riders on their-_

"We can postpone this until we can determine a more permanent solution," Nasuada cut in smoothly. "Most will jump to the conclusion that you're still somewhere in the Empire. I'll 'accidentally leak information' to those who'll pass on the news. Obviously correspondence must be done in person for security reasons." She smiled wryly. "And who ever heard of a spy infiltrating the Empire with a dragon at his side?"

_But why-_

"Following up rumors of cached dragon eggs. Rescuing surviving Riders supposedly imprisoned in Urubaen for decades. Assassinating a target." Nasuada rolled her eyes. "Trust me, overactive imaginations will take care of that part."

"Then you must remain in the Burning Plains," Arya interjected suddenly. "Beyond the minds of the magicians, but close enough will communication between us will not be excessively difficult. Saphira, we can't risk someone realizing why you return to camp so quickly and so frequently. A trustworthy, unremarkable messenger can relay what our minds won't be able to receive."

_Jarsha, _the white dragon blurted instantly. _Swear him to secrecy in the ancient language and he'd be as competent and reliable as any._

Saphira hummed in amusement. Eragon had been fond of the young messenger, if slightly creeped out by his adoration. Of course he would retain his soft spot for younglings, no matter what shape he wore!

Eragon settled down for a doze, exhausted from his first long-distance flight, while Saphira carried her passengers back to camp in near complete silence. She was just too drained to keep up her usual eager role in anything that involved her Rider.

Landing amongst the tents, Saphira politely bid the humanoid women farewell, gratefully thanking Arya for removing her damned saddle.

Only when looking into the elf's emerald eyes did the she-dragon recall a near-identical gaze she had glimpsed in Arya's memories.

_Silver-haired, but green-eyed_, _facial features like a happy-_

Privately, she murmured, _Do you have siblings?_

Passing the saddle to a waiting man, Arya paused.

_No. I am Evandar's sole child._

Were Arya a dragon, or even dwarf or human, Saphira would have let the oddly-off answer alone. But elves did not bond souls like mated dragons, didn't offer their partners rings and promises of remaining together until death. Relationships lasted only as long as they chose; from mere hours to centuries.

_...Are you Islanzadi's sole child?_

This time her spluttered silence became rigid. ..._Aye._

Saphira realized her mistake. _**Did**__ you have__** half-**__siblings? From Islanzadi?_

_One. Decades older, sired by a male from one of the lower-nobility houses. He and our mother lasted only months together, but managed to conceive a miracle some pairs had been trying to obtain for centuries. My birth meant Evandar would never adopt her as his heir, not that it stopped our mother from trying to insure her eldest a rank, a title, __**anything **__that would guarantee her a respectable position... Perhaps a position even greater than being queen._

_...What was her name?_

_Idunn._ Arya's train of thought faltered. _Her name was Idunn._

* * *

Night shrouded the Burning Plains in blackness even a dragon's eyes had to strain through. Dark clouds blotted out the moon and stars, the only illumination the flickering pinpoints of the Varden camp's distant lanterns. The wind howled across the charred landscape, bringing with it a biting chill his intense body heat kept at bay.

Eragon found himself yearning for the snug tent he had shared with Roran, warm and shielded from the desolate night.

Even sleep could not bring oblivion. Malformed hybrids and their agonized screams plagued him whenever he closed his eyes. Saphira, though her mind was firmly closed, must had felt the same way. She kept getting up, circling to find a softer patch of earth, restlessly repeating the process every few minutes.

_Can't sleep? _Eragon murmured, abandoning the pretense.

Saphira looked up from her latest spot, eyes gleaming jewels in the gloom. _Little one, _she chastised gently, like a mother scolding a young child out of bed. _I thought you had fallen asleep hours ago._

_Kind of hard to do that with you moving about every two minutes._

He was lying right through his metaphorical teeth. Saphira sensed his dishonesty as easily as he felt hers. Though their minds kept their emotions firmly at bay, the deep bond they shared from constant closeness made what was kept silent glaringly obvious. The two locked eyes, all the understanding the other needed.

Quietly Saphira rose up and padded over to his side, her head resting close to his as she settled down. Eragon draped one wing over her. The she-dragon's tense muscles eased at his touch. Her eyes drooped down, face serene as she drifted off.

Though Eragon did not draw away, he found the exchange unsettling. Saphira had always comforted _him. _When Roran had moved to Therinsford, she had been his constant companion through those dreary winter days. She had gotten through to him after Garrow's death, channeling his grief into something constructive when she had persuaded him to get vengeance on the Ra'zac. She had been his rock through the chaos, the only constant in the lonely life of a Dragon Rider.

Then the roles had drastically reversed, which had happened so rarely before. Eragon had last comforted Saphira when she had thought Glaedr had condemned her to an eternity of loneliness. Again he was reminded that Saphira was still mortal, just as vulnerable to pain as he was.

Sometimes, though physically incapable, even dragons needed a shoulder to cry on.

Yawning, Eragon let himself drift off to a blissfully dreamless slumber. With Saphira's assuring warmth at his side, the night no longer seemed as dark or as desolate.

**1. From what Arya understands of magic, Eragon will be a dragon for a considerable amount of time. Why? Despite the magical skill and time the elves possess, the Menoa Tree is the ****_only _****explicit example of extreme transformation. Casually changing shape (beyond superficial things like fur or scales) shouldn't be that difficult for those that practice. And, if elves ****_were _****able to change themselves so drastically, why not just create some new dragons from willing volunteers? **

**My answer: Some things, like life and death, just aren't made to be messed with. Changing eye color and gaining blue fur (Blodgharm -.-') changes you on the inside no more than putting on contacts and dying your hair. Changing your ****_species, _****the core of what you are? A whole different ballgame. Not to mention, just think of all those countless little genes in your DNA you'd have to rewrite, the concentration needed, ect. There's boundaries in life, people, and everyone's gotta learn them, especially elves with access to world-breaking magic.**

**2. Elves can live for centuries and have rather 'interesting' relationship dynamics. Why ****_couldn't _****Arya have a half-sibling (albeit one quite a bit older than her)? Idunn, while not the royal heir, was Islanzadi's oldest and favorite child. Losing her only further drove a wedge in her ****relationship with Arya. An older sibling also explains why Arya and Islanzadi are distant, even in a race where children are extremely rare and treasured. Arya sought attention by rebelling (being 'controversial' in her youth and subsequently gaining an interest in the Varden while she was at it.) And, if Arya ever stated to Eragon she never had any siblings... she didn't by that time.**

**3. If Saphira seems 'softer' than usual, it is only because her pride and protective instincts drive her to extremes with Eragon. With Eragon as a dragon, they are suddenly on much more equal footing, allowing Saphira to be more open about her insecurities than usual.**


	10. Act I: Chapter 7: Return Updated

**9/10 Edit: Hopefully cleaned things up in the grammar and plot-hole departments... and thrown in some innuendo to really get that ball rolling ;). **

Slowly but surely, the sky blazed vermilion, yellow, and orange, burning away the cool purples and blues of night, the radiant sun the shining center of the spectacle. Eragon reveled in the sunrise, marveling at how his new dragon's eyes perceived a once-ordinary sight. Dawn had become something out of a dream, a mix of brilliant colors beyond human perception.

_Told it you was amazing. _Saphira lay some distance from him, cleaning her scales vigorously. She had grumpily complained about the residual blood and grime that still clung to her seemingly immaculate hide until she had finally had the time to remove every invisible speck of filth. _But you didn't listen._

Eragon shook his head, gaze to riveted to the rising sun. _You never told me it was __**this **__amazing!_

Saphira rolled her eyes fondly. _I was born a dragon, stone head. Sunrise through through such eyes has always been my normal. It's a matter of perspective._

The two dragons fell into a contented silence, one fascinated with the dawn and the other in her scales. Finally, when the sun rose high enough, Eragon turned away from the no-longer-interesting blue sky. With full daylight, would those in the Varden camp notice two blobs of blue and white on the horizon? Were they aware that a second dragon, one who had been human mere days ago, rested only a few leagues from them?

No, not unless a sentry's poor human eyesight had miraculously strengthened overnight.

Spotting a tiny figure heading from that direction, Eragon's eyes narrowed with a wary growl. No patrols ever ventured this far into the Burning Plains. Nor it it Arya, as the figure was both too short and too graceless. The white dragon tensed, preparing to warn Saphira take cover in the clouds. Only when the figure's features became clear did his muscles relax.

_Jarsha's here._

Curiously, Saphira rose and padded over to Eragon's side.

While Jarshan had not doubt been prepped about his duties, the timid boy Eragon remembered from Farthen Dur would have still quivered like a leaf when approaching two massive dragons. But the lad had matured greatly from their last encounter, not even batting his eye at their looming shadows.

When the messenger came even closer Eragon squashed a wave of foreboding. Jarsha's face was pallid, his lack of sleep shown by the dark shadows beneath his dim gray eyes. There was a haunted expression to them Eragon recognized all too well. Was the boy having nightmares?

The wariness in Jarsha's stride emerged only when he was close enough to bow. "Dragon Saphira Brightscales and... er, Dragon Eragon Shadeslayer-" The white dragon nodded kindly "-have received a message from the Lady Nasuada."

_Go ahead, Jarsha, _Eragon replied. _And it is good to see you again. You've changed much since we last met._

Jarshan nodded wearily. "You have no idea," he muttered. "No offense, sir, but you've changed quite a bit yourself."

He craned his neck back to gawk up at the white dragon. Eragon gazed benignly back, doing his best to hide his concern for the exhausted boy. Jarsha's eyes roved from his silver-tipped wings to his intimidating fangs to his blue-brown eyes. Meeting them, the boy blanched and turned away. For a moment Eragon could have sworn Jarsha's dim eyes had blazed, their pupils becoming slit.

Eragon blinked, looking back to Jarsha's entirely normal dim gray eyes. He shook his head to clear himself of his prickling suspicion. Jarsha stared as if he were aware of every impolite thoughts.

_The message, Jarsha, _Saphira prompted, snapping both males from their stare-down.

Blushing madly, the boy fumbled for the scroll, unrolling it with a nervous cough. _"Those assigned to protect you have arrived to the north of camp. They are as sworn to their oaths as I am. Look for us." _

The white dragon inclined his head in thanks, and secretly, in apology. _Thank you, Jarsha._

Jarsha bowed respectfully. "I am to please, Shadeslayer."

Saphira spread her wings, ascending into the sky with a swan's grace. Eragon took a running start, not yet skilled enough to simply fly straight up, before lifting off with a powerful thrust of his wings. Together the two dragons rose above the cloud cover, heading north as Nasuada had instructed. Though the elves could no longer protect him as originally planned, they could still be useful in his new (and hopefully not permanent) form.

* * *

Blodgharm, the leader of the twelve spell-weavers Islanzadi had assigned, was no doubt understandably shocked to see the Dragon Rider as an actual dragon. But like all elves, he hid his emotions behind a facade of cool nonchalance.

Eragon blinked back, just as perturbed. Who often saw blue-furred, amber-eyed elf-men who were nothing but loincloths?

The two males sized each other up critically. Eragon was the first to bow his head. Blodgharm's... unconventional appearance was obviously a sign of his impressive magical prowess, even if his ego likely eclipsed even Vanir's. _Greetings, Master Blodgharm. It is good to finally meet you._

Blodgharm touched a finger to his lips, the traditional elfin greeting. "An honor that we have, Shur'tugal. When Lady Nasuada requested all of us to take oaths of secrecy before we could see you, we almost had to refuse. Our loyalty to Queen Islanzadi would be challenged by any command that kept us from divulging important information from her. We were skeptical when she could not even give us a reason for her... unusual demand." Blodgharm shot Arya a pointed look. Eragon wondered if she had prevented the blue-furred elf from probing Nasuada's thoughts.

A female elf with hair the color of starlight glanced at her future ruler. "Arya Svit-Kona was able to convince us otherwise." She gazed up at Eragon with the same reverence most elves held for Saphira. "We are all very happened to have listened."

Lady Nasuada spoke up tersely. "My apologies for interrupting, but the time for trivialities has passed. My and Arya's absence shall soon be noticed. Please, can we cut straight to the heart of the matter?"

"We can't change him back," Blodgharm replied immediately. "Such magic is beyond even our power."

Saphira nodded tensely, tail lashing side to side. Even beneath tightly clamped emotions, rage and... desire broiled dangerously. _I figured as such. But how can you service us __**now**__?_

"You no longer have your magic, Shadeslayer?" The white dragon nodded. "Then we shall guard you and Saphira Bjartskular with our lives. For all your strength and fire, the Black Hand would have no problem capturing you."

"The Du Vrangr Gata," Arya added, pinning Blodgharm with her sharp gaze. "Their magical prowess is sorely lacking. Very few stand the slightest chance against the Empire's common magicians, let alone the Black Hand. Trianna, their leader, specializes in sorcery and can only offer them so much tutelage. Eragon was unable to teach them anything beyond the basics and my priorities are elsewhere."

"Of course they are," Blodgharm said with the slightest baring of his fangs. "My elves shall get them up to speed. _Our _priorities will be no encumbrance."

Nasuada had the grace to ignore the barbed exchange. "Suspicions will be aroused if the Empire can find no trace of Eragon 'infiltrating' them. You'll need a way to convince my people their _human _Shadeslayer is still inhabiting camp."

_Easy enough, _the real Eragon replied. _Say I returned from the Empire with findings I need to ponder over in peace. It gives me reason for a private tent and guards to ensure my concentration is undisturbed. Most will think I need the additional elves to help crack some code or artifact I discovered. If they do suspect a cover-up, they'll assume my seclusion to be hiding another crippling illness or injury. _He snorted. _Wouldn't be the first I've had._

Blodgharm nodded. "When you're required to make an appearance, one of my elves shall either assume your human appearance or conjure up a solid illusion for you to speak through."

The elves murmured thoughtfully amongst themselves, no doubt formulating their plan. Nasuada nodded as if anything they said made sense to her. Arya and Blodgharm kept giving each other near-neutral looks that likely veiled murderous glares.

Saphira snorted, restlessly raking the soil with her claws.

_Saphira, _Eragon tried, projecting his words only to her. _Are you all right?_

_No! _she snapped, vast patience nearly at its limits. _That damned... __**cat-elf **__has some scent that's driving me mad. Arya spelled herself and Nasuada against it, but apparently it affects female dragons to! _Her nostrils flared. _I hope he gets too close to the cow pens and gets trampled by them!_

Eragon flinched away from her mind's conflicting passions. Her rational side wanted to maul Blodgharm into bits. The instincts ensnared by his pheromones wanted to do unspeakable things to him Eragon wished not on even his greatest enemies.

_Saphira and I are weary from our flight, _he explained simply, addressing everyone. _We have not even eaten properly since departing Helgrind. If we are no longer needed here, my Lady, may we take our leave?_

Nasuada dipped her head; all the permission needed. Spreading her wings, Saphira rocketed into the air, closely followed by Eragon. Once covered by thick clouds, she shook her head and inhaled deeply.

_Noxious fumes over Blodgharm? _

Saphira growled, spitting a jet of flame as if the musk clogged up her throat. _You are male, stone-head, and immune to the stench the __**cat-elf **__excretes. Better this than bewitching pheromones. _She gave sharp barrel roll, twisting herself until she popped up behind Eragon. The startled white dragon turned in bewilderment, nearly getting himself tangled until Saphira deftly flipped back out of his way. _Thank you for excusing me, Eragon. You probably saved the lives of all present._

_You did the same thing for me by scaring the skirt off Trianna, _Eragon replied dismissively. _Gods know where we'd be if she managed to... you know. _He shuddered. _The least I could do was pretend we're h- You're actually hungry, aren't you?_

Saphira snorted. _Ravenous._

Remembering his earlier lessons from Brom, Eragon asked, _Don't dragons only need to eat every few days, except when exhausting large amounts of energy? _

She winked mischievously at him. _That's true for most of the year, but do you recall about what both Brom and Glaedr told us about mating season? During it wild dragons must eat everyday as they're __expending most of their energy on... other purposes._

_But we aren't wild dragons and we aren't... consorting._

_Technically, Eragon, we're both wild dragons now. I doubt the pact allows for a dragon to be the Rider of another dragon. _She obliviously carried on while Eragon spluttered. _Regardless of whether or not you have a mate, your body is still preparing for the possibility of gaining and keeping one, and your metabolism will pay for it. _

_Then when does mating season start? I don't feel anything... unusual yet._

_You were only turned a few days ago, not-so-little one. Your body must be still adjusting. Mating season begins around the start of autumn, except for couples with eggs or young offspring. It helps cut down on overpopulation, as wild eggs will hatch on time only if there's enough resources to sustain them. It's late summer now, and guess who has no little dragons..._

Eragon groaned. It had taken a change of species to shake the lingering feelings he'd harbored for Arya and now he'd had to suffer it all over again for _his _dragon! _When does mating season end?_

_The hormones don't fully die down until the start of winter, or until the female conceives, _Saphira answered blithely. _Nothing a little enchantment from Arya won't solve. Go find somewhere safe. I'll go grab us something to eat. _

_But I'm not-_

_Hush. _She placed a metaphorical finger to his mental lips. _This isn't just about eating._ _Gods know how long you'll remain a dragon until we can rendezvous with Glaedr and Oromis. There's some... hesitation you're going to have to get over to survive that long._

Before Eragon could interrogate her, she swiftly turned, ducking under his white body as she flapped off back to camp. With a sigh of defeat, he sullenly obeyed her wishes, flying further into the Burning Plains in search of a safe place to land.

* * *

Despite lingering hopes that his transformation could be reversed, Eragon had already grudgingly accepted he likely would never be human again. Arya's memories had certainly shown him just how fortunate he was to even have completed _one _change of species, let alone two! Already, he felt the love he had secretly harbored even after her blatant rejection beginning to finally fade, his passions cooled by their complete incompatibility.

But relinquishing the few things that made him feel like _himself _still killed him, as if giving them up even for the transformation's duration meant kissing humanity goodbye for good.

Eating the deer Saphira had generously provided him had gone against every one of Oromis's teachings. Yet the beast within had roared for nourishment, and Eragon couldn't bring himself to willingly starve. He had kept the deer down by promising himself it would be the last meat he would _ever _have to consume.

And then Arya had popped his bubble...

With his time as a dragon indeterminable, Eragon doubted Saphira would catch and kill his prey much longer. Even the most devoted mothers forced their growing offspring out into the world to provide for themselves. And, while his dragon would gladly tear down a fortress to rescue him from torture and imprisonment, not even she would lower herself into becoming his care-giver.

Saphira arrived with a limp cow in her claws. Eragon hoped it was already dead... until he looked into its wide eyes.

Catching sight of certain death, the cow went into a frenzy, thrashing and mooing desperately in a skilled huntress's inescapable grip.

_A cow? _Eragon spluttered. _A cow from the Varden's pens? A cow that's supposed to feed our men!?_

_The head cook wasn't about to say that, _Saphira sniffed. _He was willing to give me the entire herd if I only stopped spooking the livestock and his workers. Be glad that I only took two; one for myself and one for... 'later.'_

_Couldn't you just-_

_Hunt? _Saphira nodded at the barren landscape. _Help yourself to the dust and the puny scavengers. Of course, they've all been feeding off-_

_Okay, okay, point taken! _He winced at the cow's bawling. _But what-_

_Dragon mothers don't kill prey for their hatchlings forever,_ Saphira drawled. _Eventually they start bringing back live animals to practice with. The experience will help you for you first __**real **__hunt, as I'm certainly not feeding you for gods know how long!_

_So now I'm your __**hatchling**__?_

_Aye, until you can care for yourself like a proper dragon! Bottoms up!_

Swooping down low, Saphira released her hold on the thrashing cow. The bovine remarkably landed on its hooves, blinking in bewilderment. Common sense kicked in. The cow made a break for the open plains.

Torn between his respect for life and his desire to prove his independence, Eragon gawked hopelessly after it.

_Maybe I should just let it go, but it'd just starve out there, or Saphira would catch it and I'd be a f... __**hungry!**_

Instinct reared its head like a provoked serpent. He lunged, claws catching the cow's flank, dragging it down with brute strength. His fangs found its throat, endings its misery with a final choked _moo. _Flipping _HIS _kill over, he growled possessively at the potential thief, and began to feast.

* * *

Saphira landed cautiously, snarling instinctively back at the other dragon. Her own first kill had been prolonged and messy. It had taken her a damned eternity to find the little bird's throat! But Eragon, or _whatever _was controlling him, had far more than mere instinct behind his movements.

Eragon, the same gentle soul who had gingerly taken each reluctant bite of doe as if he would cough it back up, devoured his prey with the voracity of a starved wolf pack. Unless her Rider was starving, Saphira could never understand such savagery from him, and he had _eaten only yesterday!_

The white creature did not look up from his prey, but his eyes still burned into her heart of hearts; burning, blue, and purged of all that familiar human brown.

Snarling warningly at the stranger, she hunkered down a safe distance as he ripped his way through the cow, waiting until raw instinct subsided enough for true communication. _If _he was anything more than raw instinct.

* * *

Back in Yazuac, an entire village slaughtered by the orders of a capricious and wrathful king, at the sight of a crow tearing into a baby who would never make it to adulthood, Eragon had _burned _in his fury. His anger over Garrow's death had smoldered impotently within him before Saphira had tempered his darkness into resolve to make things _right. _But, while his uncle's murderers were not in Yazuac that day, the Urgals had certainly been.

In a deep, dark corner of his mind, Eragon still wondered if he had only acted to save his own skin. Or if he had discovered his magic not out of self-protection, but out of _justice _for a fallen village he could not even lay to rest.

And then the Ra'zac had sought to steal something more precious than life from _his _Saphira. When the fire within him had reared again, had he purposefully stepped aside to unleash hell upon them?

But, regardless of whether Eragon believed his motives driven by sheer instinct or cold, ruthless vengeance, he had always ceded control to that inner force _willingly._

Until he blinked open his eyes to a pile of gnawed and bloody bones he last remembering as a living, breathing, bawling cow.

His gaze flicked down to red-stained white paws. His tongue ran over dried, iron-tasting crust caking his muzzle. His stomach remained silent and content with a full capacity of warm flesh. Saphira, a cautious distance away, growled at him as if he had transformed into Shruikan.

Her eyes caught his, widening in confusion and _relief-_

Eragon stumbled away from the corpse on ungainly dragon legs, his stomach heaving like a stormy sea as he fought the urge to wretch. Or perhaps he wanted to-

Something brushed up against his mind, its connection winding further down in his subconsciousness than even Saphira dared to tread. Adversely familiar and absolutely alien, it penetrated every corner of his self, casually scrutinizing him. Finally, it gave a breathy sigh of something resembling satisfaction, contentment rolling off in lazy waves.

Eragon snarled aloud. His mental barriers immediately sprang up, air-tight and unyielding, shutting even Saphira out of his innermost sanctum.

From the bowels of his mind, the invader brushed back with silent bemusement.

Sparks flew from the white dragon's nostrils as he furiously prodded back, trying to forcibly dislodge the unwelcome guest. Eragon instantly recoiled, hissing in pain as if he had tried to rip out his own ha... scales.

_What are you? _he roared, mental shields crashing down, not even expecting an answer.

_Hungry, _a masculine voice simply replied. _At least, I __**was **__hungry. __**We **__were hungry, until I took care of it, because __**you **__obviously weren't._

Eragon lurched back, trying to retreat back into his own _private _mind. The voice followed him back, its irritation underscored with amusement.

_Don't you want your question answered? Always so damned curious_, _like a hatchling just out of the egg, and only now do you choose to go scampering back to your mother!_

Eragon rounded on the stranger, his impulsive rage outweighing both fear and common sense. _How-_

_I am Eridor, and, in a way, I am __**you. **_A grim, triumphant pause. _Or rather... __**you **__are __**me**__._

_**1. Mated wild dragon pairs follow a cycle for their breeding; a courting and mating season, nesting season, hatchling season, and kicking-out-needy-adult-offspring season. Since wild dragons hatch only during times when they're most likely to survive, the presence of eggs means it's not a good idea to add another four or five kids to the cache. I'd rather have three or four kids **__**three years down the line than around fifteen of them. Young hatchlings need care and attention, which they certainly aren't getting if their parents get it on like rabbits. Unfortunately for two dragons who are both technically teenagers, the only members of their kind around for miles, and unfamiliar with their soon-to-be raging hormones, they have neither eggs nor hatchlings ;).**_

_**2. Eragon and Eridor both have a thing for justice and standing up for those who can't do so for themselves. Eragon may have been fighting for his life in Yazuac, but also facing Urgals who certainly had a role in executing an entire village. Subconsciously, but willingly, stepping aside for Eridor saved both their lives and avenged the victims. In Helgrind, not only was SAPHIRA in danger, but the Ra'zac had also taken both Garrow and Brom away from Eragon. I wonder what score Eridor had to settle, and what doors Eragon could have opened by allowing Eridor such free control of his body...**_

3. Oh, look who's up and fighting control for the body! I wonder who would win if Eragon and Eridor really had to play tug of war for it...


	11. Act I: Chapter 8: Eridor Updated

**11/10 Edit: Rewritten to fit more with current characterizations of Eragon and Eridor. Galbatorix should also be a little more cray-cray in the head.  
**

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _does not belong to me, but Chris Paolini. However, any material you don't recognize from canon belongs to me. **

Saphira gawked at Eragon as if he had sprouted another head. The other dragon's eyes had dimmed back to their blue-brown color, but remained wide and terrified. His consciousness had fully resurfaced, once again back in control of its own body. However, the foreign entity remained alongside it, rooted in a far corner of Eragon's mind.

_You. Are. NOT **ME**!_

Growling, Eragon raked his own talons over his head, the claws harmlessly scraping the some of the toughest scales on his body. His snarl intensified, the desperate cry of a trapped animal prepared to gnaw its own limb off for freedom.

_OUT! GET OUT OUT-_

Saphira sprang forward, knocking away his raised paw and thumping him on the head for good measure. _Eragon! _she cried, aghast at the claw-marks left on his formerly pristine silver-white scales. _Tearing your own brain out is **not **the answer. _She leaned reassuringly against him, melding their minds and strength together. _Let us see if your intruder can fend off both the Rider and his-_

_No! _Eragon guided Saphira deep into his consciousness. The invader remained impassively silent as both dragons brushed over the link that seamlessly entwined his mind with Eragon's._ My barriers did nothing, my struggling did nothing, and this will do nothing! _He wilted before her, head drooping in resignation. _That... **thing **is right. It IS apart of me._

_'It' has a has a gender, _the voice interjected. _And a name._

Saphira's eyes narrowed skeptically. Maybe some inept magician had blundered into her Rider's mind and was unable to find his way back out. It was better than a total stranger stuck inside Eragon's head with _their _bond. _Oh? Because the moment your body's tracked down, I'm going to-_

_My body? _the voice snorted. _You're welcome to the bones. Or was I burned..._

Chills shot down Saphira's spine like lightning. Master Glaedr had once warned her and Eragon against the temptation of taking in one of their mind's permanently alongside the other if their body was mortally injured. The stress of the constant closeness would drive them both mad, or prove too much strain on the brain that housed them, causing total shut-down of the body. And if this _parasite's _true vessel was long gone, who knew how many innocents he'd destroyed in clinging to this mockery of life!

The invader mentally shook himself as both Eragon and Saphira wallowed over his foreboding words. _There I go rambling again! My name is, was, and always will be Eridor, son of Vanilor and Ocurni, mate and father to dragons long dead, and last official King of the wild dragons._

* * *

Eragon's first thought was that the name 'Eridor' sounded really, really familiar. Secondly, that this 'Eridor' considered himself a dragon, and then...

_THE Eridor? _The white dragon groaned. _Great. Now a part of me is either insane or possessed by an egotistical spirit._

_More like **you **are apart of **me**,_ Eridor hissed venomously. _I lived and died before your grandparents, at least one pair of them, ever breathed their first. I cried alongside you as an infant, urged you to hunt in the Spine for your family's sake, and it was I who pushed your cowardice aside when Saphira's egg first landed before us. To take destiny into your own hands. It was **I **who chose to be reborn.__  
_

_Reborn? _Saphira narrowed her eyes suspiciously. _The consciousness perishes with the body. Surely you were there when Glaedr taught us this._

_Ah. The grim demonstration with the rat? _the so-called king sniffed. _Honestly, Saphira, I never thought you to be close-minded. Do you really believe the same powers that govern a little pest's soul, if you can even call such a primitive collection of instinct and memories a soul, also apply to dragons? If the soul is snuffed out with bodily death, then how am I speaking to you now?_

Eragon heaved a raspy sigh, tired of arguing with himself. _How do we know you're telling the truth?_

Eridor responded by lightly tugging his host's mind, inviting him into memories he had guarded so jealously before. Reluctantly, Eragon allowed himself to be guided into a recollection not his own.

_Two sisters, white and green, tugged at his tail, trying to drag him off the third white sister he had pinned down. His little brother brooded in a corner, nursing a bite to the shoulder. Mother had went hunting, meaning the oppressive figure that had forbidden all rough-housing had gone. _

_Only Father-King remained, silently encouraging their play by doing nothing to stop it. The massive gray dragon lay lazily on his side, watching his hatchlings with one half-open red eye that sharply followed every swipe, every bite, every pathetic little growl. Though his latest brood did not know it at the time, his true name was Vanilor, the one wild dragon that wielded enough raw power to halt a fully-trained Rider in its tracks. And he watched **every **hatchling, no matter how small or cowardly, knowing that the child destined to defeat him lay hidden in this brood..._

_Father, King no longer, lay gasping and bleeding beneath his paws. Father- Vanilor, the godlike figure that had dominated over his life since hatching, had been defeated by **him**. _

_But how was that even possible? He was just Eridor, dwarfed in size and experience by so many worthier brothers and sisters. Thinking back, he couldn't even remember **how **he had conquered such a massive, powerful opponent.  
_

_Countless dragons, kin and kith and complete strangers, watched him intently from every crag, following his every move, counting every second of disbelief. They were his judges, those who would either deem him worthy of his sire's crown, or swarm upon him until he breathed no more.  
_

_Father gazed up at his son, his young, unworthy son, red eyes burning with savage... pride? At long last, the stone-gray dragon stilled his struggles, exposing his neck in the ultimate symbol of submission. Once-King Vanilor, who had brutally stomped down all challengers before this one runty hatchling, had named his successor.  
_

_The audience threw back their heads and roared. Blue eyes burning with new-found majesty, he joined them, his voice unifying their calls into a single bellow that rocked the very mountains. Even the ancestors, gradually disappearing as night gave way to dawn, must have woken up to hear the decree: King Eridor had risen, ruler of all those that did not belong to the Shur'tugal...  
_

The stream of memories faded. Eridor shoved against Eragon's mind, his welcome had been overstayed. The other dragon stoutly resisted, too caught up in times long past to willingly let go.

_Fire-hearted Jadine, jealous Uvuna, even arrogant Sharoth, all bowed down to him. But, of course, it was Jarshan that chanted the name of their new ruler the loudest: **Eridor, Eridor, Eridor!**  
_

_Vanilor and Ocurni had vanished during the celebrations to find a new home on the fringes of their kind. Their time as the shining center of wild dragon society had come and gone. There would be no more hatchlings, no more pandering to the Riders or any other ruler; just well-deserved peace before the stars finally welcomed them into their ranks..._

_A blue she-dragon lay at his paws, he unable to even reach her. Blood stained her scales while her unseeing eyes had clouded over.  
_

_It was impossible. Unreal. A nightmare beyond his worst fears.  
_

_Safiri, his one true mate, mother of his hatchlings, one half of his soul, was-_

_**ENOUGH!**  
_

Eragon forcibly catapulted back into his body, sent sprawling by internal force. He lay on the ground silently, burning with shame as Eridor's words scorched him further.

_You know all that needed to be said, and then some, _the elder dragon snarled. _Good day to you both._

Like shadows before sunlight, Eridor slipped away, vanishing deep into Eragon's mind. Saphira shook her head as if to free it from lingering malice, growling reproachfully.

_Thankfully you couldn't do that to Brom, or else I don't think we would have ever gotten out of the Spine! _she snapped. _That prissy dragon must be that one that transformed you, and now he may be the only capable of changing you back. And now he hates you -himself- whatever the hell you two are to each other!_

Eragon pushed his head deeper into the dirt, wishing only it would swallow him up and end his misery.

For a long moment, Saphira scowled down at him, her dirt-stained Rider-turned-overgrown-hatchling. Finally, she sighed in affectionate exasperation. _I sensed your damned insatiable curiosity the moment you touched my egg. _She gave him a fanged smile. _I chose you partly for your hunger for knowledge, because you would be a fast learner, though I knew it as both a weakness and strength. It was only the matter of time before you offended yourself._

Eragon relaxed, relieved at least one part of his soul didn't hate him. _But what do we do about Eridor? I can't even feel him anymore._

_If what he told us is true, then he **can't **leave forever. You two are apart of each other. It's only a matter of time before he comes around.  
_

The white dragon rolled his eyes, feeling the utter hopelessness on their part. All they had to depend upon was the pride of a long-dead, over-sensitive prima donna. _How long would that take?_

_Let's see; he's a dragon, the proudest of all creatures, and a **King **to boot... Optimistically, I'd say a century or two._

He smacked back down into the dirt with a dismayed groan.

_At least I know where he got it from, _Saphira muttered to herself.

* * *

Saphira, already emotionally exhausted from a rather trying day with both Eragon _and _Eridor, did not have much patience to spare for the absent, touchy dragon. At least Eragon was blessed enough to fall into an afternoon nap, lulled by a full belly and the afternoon heat. She was not so fortunate.

Restlessly, Saphira polished her scales until they glittered like polished gemstones. She raked her claws into the loose earth, drawing miniature landscapes until she had recreated Alagaesia. When all else failed, she set the remnants of the cow alight, watching halfheartedly as her flames quickly burned the bones to ash and smoking embers.

_Bored, are we?_

Tensing, Saphira snapped her head up, ready to tear the threat to her Rider's secret into bloody pieces. Seeing only Solembum, she quickly reigned in her temper. Of course the meddlesome werecat had found them. He and Angela were drawn to juicy secrets like flies to the corpse.

Careful to not knock the shape-shifter over, Saphira nudged him in greetings. _Solembum. I didn't hear you arrive._

Rasping his tongue over the fur she had mussed up, he nonchalantly replied, _Of course you didn't hear me. Not even dragons can hear creatures that move silently as shadows. _His glittering crimson eyes locked on Eragon's sleeping form. _So the witch hasn't gone senile yet. The King of the wild dragons lives again._

_King? Eragon is-  
_

_No, _Solembum deadpanned. _The other, he has awakened, aye?_

_Eridor?_ Saphira shivered in dread. _His soul is somehow connected to Eragon's, and is undoubtedly responsible for his transformation, but my Rider has not been overtaken by such a **parasite**._

Solembum cocked his head, scrutinizing both dragons as if they were both mice. _I am old, Brightscales, far older than you. I remember the days dragons wild and bonded flew free before the Fall, just as I remember their last King. And he- _he jerked his head at the white dragon -_is his splitting image. Smaller, not as scarred, maybe a tinge more silver_, _but still a young Eridor all the same._

Saphira processed this slowly, eyes narrowing at how the familiar brown of her Rider's human irises had been partially consumed by that burning blue. _A__re you saying Eridor is **consuming **Eragon's soul?_

_Of course not,_ the werecat sniffed, _or else we would not be talking about your Rider in the present tense. Eridor has years of power and experience over him. Had he wished, the King could have swallowed up every last trace of Eragon and take his place entirely. But instead Eridor chose to only partially manifest himself. Hm... two entwined, aware souls sharing a body both have rightful claim over... I wonder how long it'll take for them to completely fall apart._

_WHAT!  
_

The black werecat streaked off, barely evading the burst of blue fire Saphira hurled after him before, and vanished amongst the rocks that dotted the landscape.

Partly unfurling her wings, Saphira seriously considered hunting Solembum down and forcing the answers out of him. However, the werecat was far smaller and more agile than she was, capable of dancing around her blows. And the Varden would certainly wonder why a full-grown she-dragon was torturing a witch's companion like that. Why tire herself out and arouse unwanted suspicion?

Settling back down, Saphira refused sleep, watching over Eragon like a sentinel. She had no idea how Eridor would further affect her Rider, but she was certainly not giving him any opportunity of possession ever again.

Still, even she couldn't help but smile like an idiot when the white male unconsciously nuzzled closer to her warmth.

* * *

Galbatorix, Black King of Alagaesia, lounged back in his throne, idly rubbing the glittering black stone set in that plain silver ring. Shruikan lay curled around around him, but his presence didn't even warrant an acknowledgement. The skeletal black dragon _(the shadow of one) _was only a puppet, an avatar to be used to strike fear and awe into the common masses. Shruikan was limp, his eyelids partly shut over dead white eyes. The crippled soul within the Eldundari was predictably silent, sealed off and brooding on his own hopeless predicament.

"Aye," the King commented snidely. "A wonderful way to spend an afternoon." His onyx-black eyes never left the ornate golden bowl perched on his lap, nor the ordinary water it held.

The clear water darkened, becoming an opaque black that blotted out the bowl's golden bottom. Galbatorix smiled warmly when Murtagh's pale face manifested. He stood against a gloomy gray backdrop, undoubtedly one of Helgrind's cavern walls. Smoke drifted over the image, meaning Thorn lurked out of view.

"Greetings, my servant." Galbatorix's smile widened into a smirk when the other man flinched at his welcoming tone. "How fare the Ra'zac? I've been _so _worried ever since they failed to check in recently."

Most of his inferiors quaked like saplings in the wind when they had to address him personally. But Murtagh was skilled in shielding his weaknesses from the all-knowing mind of his master. He was proud like a wild dragon of old, unable to be bowed despite his current circumstances. Galbatorix could respect that: he'd had enough human incompetence _(far too much)_ in the last century to last him a lifetime.

"My Lord," Murtagh began, "I am regretful to report that the entire family, Ra'zac and Lethrblaka, are..."

Of course Galbatorix had already suspected _that. _He needed only confirmation. "Aye, Murtagh?"

"Dead," the other Rider answered without preamble. "All four are dead. I stumbled across ashes and charred bone fragments. My magic tells me this is all that remains of them."

Unnervingly silent, the King processed this thoughtfully. The sides of Helgrind were steep, too step for anyone to climb up without the aid of magic. Unless they had bypassed the climb entirely...

_The rebel Dragon Rider! Of course, the damn fool and his she-dragon must have taken vengeance for the old man's murder. Or to save that cousin's bitch, whichever. But the boy is too impulsive to have considered protective enchantments; neither his magic nor dragon-fire should have worked!_

No, gods dammit! He was thinking the wrong way. Unconventional reasoning, against what he had been taught _(brainwashed by the apes)_, had made the Order so damned easy to topple. Ambushes and guerrilla warfare had obliterated Rider numbers in a few short seasons. So the boy and his she-dragon must have faced the Ra'zac and two fully-grown Lethrblaka without their greatest strengths. What miracle would have ensured their victory?

_Unless they hadn't been without magic. What can possibly be strong enough to break **my **wards?_

Galbatorix had known of a dragon once with flames hot enough to burn through magic. But that meddlesome King had perished decades ago, and his power had died with him, not having been passed on to his rightful successor. His numerous descendents had been ruthlessly hunted down, but none had shown any hint of his abilities, no more than what was usual to the royal line. So, if the wards had been burned away by Kingly fire, _who _had ignited the blaze?

And then Galbatorix remembered a passing comment Jarshan had made soon after seizing power from Eridor, something about his brother's unyielding stubbornness...

If there was ever to a creature that would claw its way back up from the void of death, Galbatorix did not doubt it would be a dragon.

"So," he murmured to the pitifully small Eldunari upon his ring, "this is what all of you have been hiding from me." Turning back to the scrying bowl, he addressed Murtagh: "Did you consult with your dragon, my servant? What does Thorn have to say of this?"

The Dragon Rider remained uneasily silent.

_Of course, _Galbatorix groused to the miserable mind sulking in his ring. _Only that boy could be distant with a part of his soul. Sometimes I think Thorn only hatched to be free of his egg!_

"Go on, already!" he snapped. Behind him, Shruikan shifted, giving a husky growl. "What does Thorn _feel_?"

Thorn's red form came into view as the dragon did his best to respectfully acknowledge his master. He may not have been able to speak to Galbatorix personally over long distances, and was forced to use Murtagh as his mouthpiece, but Galbatorix valued the effort. At least one dragon follower could show their King proper deference.

"My Lord, Thorn says he feels a linger presence here." Murtagh paused thoughtfully. "It is as if a fire burned away every last trace of the Ra'zacs' malice. Thorn feels as if his heart of hearts is singing in joy, though he does not know why."

"Of course not." The King sniffed condescendingly. "The distractions of a corporeal body impede his concentration."

That explained why Thorn had not reacted like the Eldunarya had. Even Shruikan, though his physical form still breathed, was only indirectly connected to it. But if even this oblivious hatchling could sense such power when it was underneath his nose...

Galbatorix leaned back against his throne, failing to conceal his pleased smirk. A dead dragon had manifested itself, more or less, in its reincarnation. Four living dragons had spontaneously become five. Eridor had opened up a whole new avenue of possibilities: if he could return, surely others dormant inside their hosts could awaken, resurrecting the dragon race _(back where they belonged)_?

But first Eridor, or his transformed reincarnation, whatever the hell he was now, had to be retrieved and studied thoroughly to discover how such a miracle had even occurred. And who had been present at Helgrind that fateful day? The last she-dragon and her-

_The Rider!_

"Murtagh, if Thorn flies at top speed, how quickly do you think you can reach the Varden's camp in the Burning Plains?"

"A day and a night, my Lord." He appeared indifferent, but his eyes betrayed confusion. _(clueless fool, no better than his brother!)_

Galbatorix gave a predator's smirk, his black eyes glittering hungrily. Soon now, his dreams would become living and breathing reality. He needed only to verify his wild thoughts, to assure himself this was not an old man's fantasy. _(oh, the fragility of a human mind!)_

"My servant, I do believe now is the perfect time to collect our missing she-dragon and her Rider." Murtagh opened his mouth to protest, but quickly thought better of it _(wise little hatchling)._ "After all, our forces haven't retreated too far from the battlefield. The Empire can yet make a victory out of this..."

**1. Note those wonderful little italicized insertions into Galbatorix's scene that just make him that much more crazier. FYI, even Galby isn't consciously aware he's making these remarks...**


	12. Act I: Chapter 9: Attack Updated

**11/23 Edit: Edits should be coming faster now, seeing as the later parts of Act II don't need as much of a rehaul. Most changes in this chapter were to edit out redundancy. The piece that got the most change was the first section, seeing as part of the knuckle-bone images were changed and because Angela doesn't seem the type to be worried over a little mass destruction...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own ****_The Inheritance Cycle, _****big surprise. All original material, however, is mine.**

Dark clouds smothered the sky above, turning the night even darker. Small pinpricks of light, the lanterns of the night vigils, floated across the barren across the landscape like phantom stars. The world, even those so far above it, held their collective breath and waited for the storm to break...

Every time Angela settled down to sleep, she would just as quickly jump up and restlessly pace her tent like a caged animal _(oh, the irony)_. Foreboding hang hot and heavy in the air, a suffocating smog that seeped deep into her soul, deep enough to rekindle the dormant inner flame she had carried since birth.

Emerald spell-fire crackled merrily in the center of her tent, smokeless and well-controlled, bathing her makeshift lair in an eerie green glow. A way to set the mood for any witch.

Angela hunched over her dragon bones, fingers gently stroking their well-smoothed surfaces. Her hazel eyes glowed green with a light independent of the enchanted flames. Gathering up the priceless pieces in her hands, she smiled and tossed the bones as high as she could. Some clattered to the ground, blank and temporarily forgotten. Those with something to say, however, eagerly landed before her slitted pupils.

A white orb on black, smaller than it had been the last time, ready to splutter out once and for all against an oppressive darkness. Angela frowned in displeasure.

_A high possibility of death in the near future. Hmph. There goes the fun before it really got good._

On the next knuckle bone, a sword and spear crossed to form an 'X.' A human head was skewered onto the spear while the sword was etched in an all-too-familiar shade of red. Blood and mutilation. A great and bloody battle that would shake the foundations of civilization, perhaps even tear them down for good. By the ominous night, Angela sensed on the skirmishes escalating up to that level would break out soon.

_And more whining soldiers to tend to. _

Angela sighed, running a hand through her curly brown hair. There were signs of rebirth or something actually _interesting _tonight. Only the grim reality of more destruction and bloodshed, the spawn of a decades-old war. Even worse, there was no snippy werecat around to complain to.

Green eyes roving over the bones, Angela checked the blank ones on the ground, confirming her theory. It seemed the only secrets they wanted to divulge tonight ended in further carnage. Shame, she had actually been looking forward to her next reading...

Wait! What was that, under a knuckle bone? Shifting the blank piece aside with an acid-green nail, the witch grinned at what lay concealed beneath it.

"Oh, Anea, you tease."

Fire. _Blue _fire. An impressive feat for a set of knuckle bones that didn't like showing anything beyond blood-red and the gray spectrum range.

"King fire," Angela muttered aloud, grinning manically at the thought. _Oh, if only Solembum was here! How I'd love to rub this in his furry face!_

Gathering up the bones into their pouch, the witch tightly tied the bag shut and dropped it securely into her shirt, where only the suicidally stupid would dare reach. At least now she could sleep soundly. After all, Nasuada would hardly want her to sleep through the upcoming battle, especially one that promised such an entertaining show.

* * *

Blinking open his eyes, Eragon looked groggily about him. Saphira had edged up next to him in her slumber, unconsciously seeking the warmth and protection of a fellow dragon. Smiling at the endearing sight, he fondly nuzzled the sleeping she-dragon. Such closeness in his current state may have been awkward when they both were awake, but gods dammit, Saphira could still be so adorable when she wasn't up and snarking at-

Hackles rising, Eragon slipped away from Saphira's side, craning his head upward to study the sky. The sun was just inching up the horizon, wreathed not in the usual array of yellows and oranges, but drowned by a tide of scarlet intense to even a dragon's blue-sensitive eyes. He could have sworn such a sun had risen for the Battle of the Burning Plains, its promise of bloodshed fulfilled by the end of the day.

Far in the east, to where the remnants of Galbatorix's forces still camped, came a thunderous rhythm, the beat of a giant heart. A snarling Saphira jumped to her paws. Eragon joined her with a fierce growl, recognizing the beat of marching soldiers, the din of clanking armor all too well, though their numbers sounded far fewer than before. Thorn himself flew above the Imperial army, his red scales nearly blending into the blood sky.

He glanced back at the Varden's camp. Even from this distance he saw armor and weapons flashing against the sunlight as soldiers readied for the assault.

Eragon spread his wings, determined to come to the rebellion's aid. He may have no longer had Zar'roc or devastating magic, but he had fire, and lots of it. Plenty enough to roast the enemies alive in their chain mail.

Saphira's mind clamped firmly down on his rage. _Don't you remember, Eragon? The Empire is not to find out about your weakness!_

_But I can still help, Saphira!_ he argued hotly. _I'm not just going to sit here and watch everyone else be harmed further by Galbatorix's men! I have a responsibility to them and to you!_

_Your responsibility is not to get yourself captured or killed,_ Saphira replied coldly. _Are souls are linked, remember? Would you wish your own suffering upon me by getting yourself foolishly injured?_

_But-_

_You have no idea how to fight in a dragon's body. Now stay back; Blodgharm's forces and I are strong enough to crush Murtagh and his traitorous dragon without your help. _Bellowing a challenge, the she-dragon rocketed into the air, colliding head-on with Thorn in a burst of sapphire flame.

Huffing in frustration, Eragon frantically beat his wings to maintain a low hover so he had a better view of the battle. Nasuada and Orrin headed their respective forces, clashing with the Imperials before the opposing army could reach their camp and the wounded and civilians sheltered within. The Du Vrangr Gata had fanned out, the strongest members hunting down rival magicians while the weakest hung back to heal the wounded.

Thorn and Saphira flew above the chaos, locked in a deadly battle of their own. They continually clashed, their fangs snapping at vulnerable points while their thrashing paws held the other at bay. Though smaller, the red dragon was protected by dark gray armor that shielded his weakest regions. Saphira hadn't the time to be suited up, and had only her own hide to deflect the other's blows. At least Thorn's back was bare, meaning Murtagh had chosen to battle on foot, no doubt trying to avoid another one-on-one clash with his counterpart.

Looking carefully, Eragon spotted his brother in the center of the carnage, cutting down all stood in his path. Zar'roc twirled about him with inhuman speed, its blade thirsty for blood. Blodgharm and his elves swiftly swarmed to meet him, a few meeting the Dragon Rider in direct combat. Most hung back, negating Murtagh's devastating magic with their own defensive spells and giving the surrounding soldiers a fair chance. Combined the thirteen elves held their own, but Eragon doubted even they could defeat Galbatorix's servant without fighting for hours to wear him down.

Eragon turned back to Saphira, far more concerned for her than elves fully capable of protecting themselves. Thorn could rely upon his Rider to provide him extra strength. Saphira, her mind firmly cut off from Eragon's for his own protection, had no such support.

Saphira did her damned best to defend herself, but her blows did next to nothing on a heavily armored opponent. Thorn, while slower, struck back with far stronger hits. Even now, she tired against deflecting them, her movements becoming sluggish. Thorn relentlessly hammered down on her, his ironclad oaths allowing no mercy.

The two dragons were lost in the rage of combat, their sentient minds having given way to pure instinct. Eragon knew in his heart of hearts Saphira would gladly choose death over the hellish destiny that awaited her at Urubaen. Thorn, incensed by her infuriating defiance, was determined to beat her into obedience. Without Riders upon their backs to chasten their brutality and reason unable to penetrate the angry haze that clouded their minds, this was surely a fight to the death, one with a painfully clear victor.

Eragon hopelessly watched the horribly unmatched fight from a distance, wanting only to tear the other dragon's throat out, despite knowing it would mean instant death or capture for himself. He couldn't do that, not if Saphira also had to suffer for it...

_Saphira lay just feet away from him, broken and battered. The Lethrblaka had ripped and teared into her hide with their cruel beaks and claws. She was unconscious now, seemingly dead to the world._

_He wanted to rise up and slaughter every last one of the bastards who had harmed his Saphira so, but he was bound to the floor by his own weakness and inability, only able to lie there like a fool while his bonded was to suffer a fate worse than death..._

_Just seconds before, his Safiri had been a defiant Queen in all her majesty. Now she was beyond him, a gaping wound in his heart where she had once resided. And like a pinned mouse beneath the cat's claws, he lay beside her corpse, powerless to stop her from slipping away..._

The last memory was not his own. Eridor had surfaced from the depths of his subconscious, bringing with him his memories and the glorious, all-consuming power he had wielded in life. Eragon no longer shied away from his presence, desperately reaching out for the one being that could save his Saphira.

Eragon and Eridor, two unlikely spirits connected only by rebirth, different in so many ways yet stemming from a common soul, depended upon the other. Eragon was powerless in a foreign body. Eridor no longer had a corporeal form to manifest his magic. The two united, their minds in perfect harmony, as they struggled to save _their _she-dragon.

_Lend me your power, _Eragon intoned, _so that I may no longer be helpless to protect my Saphira._

_Lend me your body, _Eridor whispered back, _so that I may repay the mate I failed so long ago._

Eridor called upon his kingly might, channeling all of it into Eragon's body. United with its wielder, Eragon was no longer overwhelmed by such raw power, but felt it surging through his very veins, pumping new strength into his pounding heart. He relinquished himself to the blaze, willingly fusing with an ancient magic that predated even the creation of modern magic.

Together, the two souls threw back their head and bellowed, releasing their fury as a bloodcurdling challenge. As one, they surged toward _their_ she-dragon, determined to not have a mere little _hatchling _break their promise to her.

* * *

Even Saphira, proud as she was, knew it was a matter of time before her strength failed her. Exhaustion slowed her body down, dulling her movements and straining her aching muscles. She pumped her wings furiously, fighting against the haze to keep aloft. Soon she would fall to the raging tide of soldiers below, lost to the battle like a little bird against the sea.

Saphira had long since given up any chance of an offense. She just concentrated on raising her forearms to keep Thorn from raking his claws down her sides and butted his head back whenever his jaws went snapping for her throat. The red male seemingly struck with the strength of three dragons, her bones nearly cracking as he slammed his full weight into them. His claws had gouged out the scales above one eye, sending scarlet blood gushing down into her face.

Saphira had no intent of admitting defeat. She'd rather drag Thorn down with her than be forced to mother his and Shruikan's spawn!

When the dragon's claws lashed out again, she reared upward, taking the hit meant for her chest to her heavily armored belly. Winded, Saphira panted frantically for air when Thorn's paw slammed down upon her head.

She was nearly blinded now, the blood poring into her eyes and her opponent's crimson scales blurring into a red haze. Black ringed her vision. She would gladly allow the darkness to engulf her if it meant escaping further-

A deafening roar split the air, one that sent the ache and exhaustion fleeing from her bones. Thorn fluttered frightfully away from her.

Free of her tormentor, Saphira blinked her eyes rapidly to clear them of the blood. Vision unhindered, she gazed upon the embodiment of fire and fury. It was as if the god of dragons himself had descended from the heavens to protect his final she-dragon. The battle below had ceased, all humans craning their heads to gaze up at the newcomer. The Imperial soldiers were pale-faced with terror while the men of the rebellion held only awe in their eyes. The snow-white dragon radiated power like a star would light. His eyes burned a brilliant, all-consuming blue.

Saphira looked into that blazing gaze and drew comfort from it, as she would from a mother or mate. Thorn, however, gaped at the dragon as if he were facing death incarnate.

Eragon -or was it Eridor?- gave Thorn a scorching glare that could have charred his flesh. Though hardly bigger than the crimson male, Saphira had no doubt the white dragon could crush him and the entire Imperial army like insects. The dragon bellowed another challenge, sending the soldiers below into hysterics. Most Imperials turned tail and fled, the rebels pursuing them with renewed blood-lust. Only the bravest (Murtagh among them) boldly defied common sense.

Prodded into it by his Rider, Thorn slowly turned to face certain doom, reluctantly roaring back. He flew awkwardly, showing only his heavily armored underside to Eridor (Eragon?) as if that alone could save his life.

The god-dragon paused in consideration. Saphira wondered which one of its controllers was pressing for mercy. Parting his jaws, he unleashed a torrent of blindingly blue fire aimed directly at Thorn. The air around the flames shimmered with the intense heat, so hot the soldiers below broke out in sweat.

The supernatural fire burned through the armor as if it were parchment. The scales beneath were scorched, now the color of blistered skin rather than a deep crimson. At least his charred remains weren't raining down on his Rider.

Thorn reeled back with a pained scream that sent the last of the Empire's forces scattering. The elves momentarily distracted by the display, Murtagh ran for it with inhuman speed, clutching his own stomach with his dragon's shared agony. Saphira snarled after them in disdain, shooting one last burst of flame to singe the heels of the stragglers.

The white dragon threw back his head and bugled his victory to the heavens, his fellow rebels raising their weapons and adding in their own triumphant yells. Saphira had opened her mouth to add one of her own when she noticed her companion's confident wing-beats beginning to falter.

His burning blue eyes faded to a normal intensity, losing their brilliant glow. The godlike power he radiated spluttered out like a candle before the winter wind, leaving Saphira chilled by its absence. Eyes rolling back into his head, a white dragon that was now certainly Eragon plummeted helplessly to earth.

Saphira dove to intercept his fall. Blodgharm and his spellweavers beat her to it, a spell leaving the white body suspended limply in the air as if supported by invisible hands that slowly lowered him down to the ground. The soldiers scrambled back to make room for the massive form, keeping as far a distance as physically possible.

Saphira was the first to reach Eragon's side. Snarling warningly at the magicians that surged forward to help, she protectively placed herself between them and her fallen Rider, enveloping his presence to conceal it from prying minds. She nudged his head gently with her snout, the touch causing him to stir.

_S-Saphira? _Even his mental voice was rough and forced as if he had just endured a terrible storm. The human brown had vanished entirely from his eyes, but despite their bright blue color, Saphira _knew _the soul of her Rider stared out from them. _You're safe._

The she-dragon tenderly pressed down on his wavering thoughts with wave upon wave of serenity. _Hush, little one, _she soothed, easing him into a blank bliss. _Sleep. You've earned it._

He relaxed, white eyelids closing peacefully over his burning gaze. Nuzzling him a final time as if to assure he was merely asleep and not dead, Saphira rose to face the bewildered crowd. All of them, though obviously grateful about their savior's untimely arrival, were undoubtedly wondering _where _in the seven hells he had come from.

It was Trianna who forced her way to the front, meeting the she-dragon's gaze with only the slightest involuntary flinch. Remembering how this sorceress had once sought to manipulate her Rider through charm and seduction all those months ago, Saphira clamped tighter down on her mental barricades over Eragon's mind. "Dragon Brightscales?" she began, blue eyes riveting to the white male passed out at her paws. "May I politely ask who our new... champion is?"

_A newcomer, _Saphira announced, broadcasting her words to the entire crowd, though her cool glare never left Trianna. _A dragon who joined our cause just a few days ago. Before now, only Lady Nasuada and Arya Drottningu, and most recently Master Blodgharm and his spellweavers, were trusted with the knowledge of his existence. My Rider and I discovered him in Helgrind, the lair of the late Ra'zac._

"Galbatorix's servants?" Trianna exclaimed. "Then how do we know he can be trusted?"

Grinning, Saphira gave the honest answer (even if the second part applied only to Eridor.) _Of course he can be trusted, for he is the true King of the wild dragons._

**1. King and Queen dragons were special for a reason, boys and girls, for a reason we'll simply call the "King's (or Queen's) Wrath." Also let me remind you that this power wasn't passed on like it should have been after Eridor's death. Eragon wasn't really wielding godlike power so much as channeling a diluted version of it through him, seeing as Eridor no longer has a body of his own. Makes you wonder how strong the real deal is...**

**2. Rider or not, Murtagh was up against a burning-eyed, fear-radiating dragon-god that could have easily turned Thorn into toast. A dragon-god that burned through magically-reinforced armor like it was paper and came ****_this _****close from killing/driving him insane. ****_You _****try not running away from that at least once.**


	13. Interlude Updated

**12/23 Edit: Sorry for this update being a little later than planned. At least we all survived the apocalypse! I hope this new and improved interlude is worth it, 'cause it's got two brand new original scenes: one with crazy Galby and one as we see how Eragon's getting over his loss of humanity (with some hints of ExS fluff, of course!) Also, sections to this got a major tweak, so if plots and characterizations don't line up, don't worry. That's why this is getting a rewrite ;).**

**Disclaimer: Everything from the books belongs to Chris Paolini. All original material belongs to me.**

_A white dragon god descending from on high, six-horned (like the bastard!), with burning flames that melted magically-reinforced armor like butter. A single roar that sent the great Imperial army scattering like mice-_

_The King in all his royal Wrath, burning, blazing, coming for HIM-_

Greedily, Galbatorix pored through Thorn and his Rider's memories, savoring each one like a connoisseur would fine wine. Murtagh droned incessantly in the background about unimportant things like causalities and reinforcements.

"My Lord, if you were to grant me an elite force of your best Black Hands, I could easily set up an ambush for_ both_ dragons. All they need to do is stray from the camp's protection and-"

"No, Murtagh." The King of Alagaesia reclined in his throne, willing Shruikan's head into his lap. He stroked the black dragon's head idly, even as the soul inside the Eldunari shrank away from his touch. "The she-dragon and her _King _can wait for the moment."

His servant _(imbecilic little upstart!)_ had the gall to challenge him. "My King, if you are really so anxious about capturing these dragons, then why-"

_"NOT YET!" _

Shruikan's body roared along with him, shaking the throne-room's walls. Murtagh froze while Thorn automatically dropped to the grand in a gesture of submission _(smart little rat). _

"Recall the soldiers," Galbatorix intoned coldly. "Send them wherever the hell you want. I don't care about them. Just don't _touch _that false little King and his bitch until..."

Murtagh couldn't contain himself. "Until _what, _my Lord?"

Galbatorix bared his flat teeth in a fierce snarl, Shruikan's body more effectively mimicking him. For a single moment, he and his inner whisper merged. _"Until I can savor it!"_

* * *

Sleep evaded her again that night. That was no big surprise, considering how many maimed and dying soldiers were still crying over disfiguring and infected wounds. Their moans and screams and cries for their mothers rang in her head even if she took one of Angela's strongest sleeping droughts.

And those were only the _thoughts. _Her stomach quivered as if barely holding back entrails. Her limbs ached in phantom pain, though clearly she had never had an arm or leg amputated. Her curse drove her to alleviate them _all, _from the bleeding man moments away from a lonely death on the battlefield to the young child sobbing for his lost father, shredding her heart into a thousand damned tiny pieces.

She would _not _kneel down and vomit herself into unconsciousness that night, as she had been found on several severely humiliating occasions. She wandered camp as a pale-skinned and violet-eyed spirit, certainly looking the part. The older sentinels all but ignored their little stalker, well accustomed to her antics. The younger man on guard, however, avoided her gaze as if she was some pathetic basilisk of legend.

To pass the lonely nights, she often entertained herself by playing on their fears. She stalked the more paranoid guards on their patrols, glaring holes into their backs before they threatened to rat her out to Angela or ever-irritating Greta. Other times she would prowl in the shadows of the tents, singing childish rhymes in her chilling adult voice. The men too intoxicated to remember she _always _sounded like that would screaming from their tents and run screaming back when the cold night air hit them.

But there was too much agony for her usual games. So she forced herself to carry on past the endless tents of the wounded, and desperately clutched at the oblivious minds of the dreamers, her last life-line to sanity.

Her restless feet led her through the camp's center, where the tents of the most important figures were located. Even in the darkness, her eyes still made out the crimson red of Nasuada's pavilion. Out of the numerous tents, only Orrin's still glowed. At least he had his inner scientist's silly experiments to keep the maddening nightmares at bay.

Like a moth seeking light, she honed in on the familiar sound of heavy breathing. Saphira had reclaimed her customary spot curled around Eragon's tent, deserted as it was. (Roran and his bride had moved to their own private sleeping quarters the night they had arrived.)

A very rare and secret smile played across her sickly features. Very few things in this new and cursed life gave her joy. Most were bittersweet reminders of an agonizingly ancient past. Like when she had curled up with her brothers and sisters, lulled to sleep by the sounds of their breathing.

A new dragon laid beside Saphira now, one that had unconsciously sidled closer to her in his slumber. He had descended from the heavens only hours ago, a vengeful god who had rained his wrath down upon the treacherous Thorn before succumbing to the divine strength he had channeled through himself. Saphira had proclaimed him King of the wild dragons, a blatant half-truth. The most rebels would recognize was simply called Eragon Shadeslayer.

The idiot boy had always held the soul of a reborn dragon. She had sensed the _other _since she had first been unceremoniously awakened. A shivering wreck huddled in Angela's tent when the battle had raged, she had heard the description of the King's Wrath, and dismissed his other half as an equally moronic King who had awakened to relive his glory days.

And she had been _so _positive in her assumption she hadn't thought to look upon the fool with her own human eyes, thinking the dragon long dead and forgotten by her time.

But she _knew _him. She had last seen him decaying in a lonely cave alongside his mate, both held forever in death's eternal embrace. He was so much smaller now, decades younger, silver-tinted and without his trademark scars. But this was _him, _her liege, her King, her father in all but blood, her Eridor.

She gaped at him disbelievingly, stumbling back so fast she tripped over her own clumsy feet, getting yet another good look at her pale, near-emaciated, fragile _human _cage.

No dream, then, no nightmare. Just the wise, beloved Eridor forced to share a soul with some thickheaded _boy._

Fury rose up inside her like hot bile, darkening her intense violet eyes and morphing her agape expression into a snarl of rage. In his arrogance Eragon had sought to _bless_ her, to make himself even more impressive in the eyes of his new worshipers. By heeding that senile old woman's plea, he had damned her for a lifetime. She had forcibly awakened to a frail, accursed human's body for her own survival, with only the shriveled remnant of its true occupant for company.

_And Eragon is to blame!_

Her quivering hand fumbled for the dagger usually always at her side, a poor substitute for proper claws and fangs. Finding her belt bare, she stormed closer, hoping a bare foot to his eye would be enough to-

Glancing over at Saphira, she froze, hand flying to the silver mark gracing her forehead. Saphira (and Safiri) had twice saved her life and soul. They certainly didn't deserve to feel their Rider's (and mate's) agony. And Eridor was in there too, awake and aware and-

_Saphira hatched for this boy. Somehow, in idiot Eragon, she knew her King slumbered. He only had to be brought out._

She stepped back, anger dissolving in a soft sigh of resignation. Saphira and Safiri had obviously made their decision and would watch over their bondeds, as always. And it was Eridor had chosen such a moron to be reborn into. And now he was aware of himself again, a merciless guide that would obviously keep his young host on the right path.

_Perhaps he is not a complete loss._

Looking over at the two oblivious dragons, her resolve strengthened. Eragon had a long way to go before he could ever earned her acceptance (but never her forgiveness, not ever). And, until that day, her greatest secret would remain hers alone. After all, with Eridor without a corporeal body, even he couldn't be trusted to keep her secret safe when such a _child-killer _was in control.

"Forgive me, my King," Elva whispered, turning her back to the dragons. "Perhaps one day Shadeslayer will deem himself worthy of truly looking after the next generation."

* * *

Within days' time, the last of the Empire's forces had trickled out of the Burning Plains, leaving behind only deserted campsites and the mass graves of their dead. Rather than continue trying to capture not one, but _two _free dragons, Galbatorix had withdrawn altogether for reasons Arya didn't even try to understand. After all, what sort of madman slaughtered the entire dragon race and then sought to rebuild it from a single female?

But Arya was thankful for the respite; the free time to practice and reflect.

Eragon had adapted to his new reality well enough. Saphira often took him far out into the Burning Plains to become fully accustomed to fighting and flying in his dragon body, far away from prying eyes that could wonder why an adult needed to learn such basic techniques. Those not let into Eragon's secret just suspected the two dragons were doing something far more intimate in their private time. Whenever someone suggested that perhaps the rebellion would soon have more dragons on their side, Arya merely nodded, not acting on either the urge to laugh hysterically or wretch.

However, Eragon had not yet taken an alias. For lack of a better term, he was only referred to as 'King' or 'Majesty,' for the Varden only knew him as the so-called King of the wild dragons. Arya had suggested to just take the name of a famous dead wild dragon. Hell, Eridor's spirit was right alongside him! He could give Eridor's name as his own and not even by lying!

But Eragon had politely refused even that. Sometimes, Arya wondered if even he was giving up hope of ever returning to his true form and planned on revealing his true identity to the world once Galbatorix was no longer a threat.

The human Eragon Shadeslayer remained reclusive, holed up in his tent and laboring over a secret project. At least, that's what many of the rebellion believed, the Council amongst them. The elf guards posted at his tent warded away even the most persistent of visitors. When the human Eragon had to interact with the oblivious public, Blodgharm was always close by to cast a substantial-looking illusion of the Dragon Rider. The real Eragon linked his mind to the elf's, projecting his voice and mannerisms into the illusion. So far, not even those who knew him best had caught on to something about him being offed.

When not watching over Eragon's secret, the Blodgharm and his elves moved freely about camp. Sometimes they practiced their swordplay alongside her. Most often they spent their hours amongst the Du Vrangr Gata, honing their magic and strengthening their defenses against rival magicians. Even proud Trianna was impressed by their progress in so short a time.

Closing her eyes, Arya sighed, relishing the breeze against her face. Even if the red dust dirtied her immaculate clothes and the air wreaked of sulfur, the Burning Plains offered her solace from the camp's constant activity.

_If only my headaches didn't follow me!_

"Enjoying your quiet time, my Lady?"

Of course she had heard Blodgharm approaching. She had just ignored his presence for as long as possible.

Arya opened her eyes with a cool scowl. The blue-furred elf stood a respectful distance from her, not that it lessened her impulse to slap him. She had made the spell against his bewitching charm permanent days ago. Now it made her only want to gag.

She smiled frostily. "I was, Master Blodgharm, until _something _disturbed my meditation."

Blodgharm didn't rise to the insult. Instead he stared past her, in the direction Eragon and Saphira had vanished hours ago.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" he murmured. "The dragons?"

Arya nodded. "Aye, they are." Though she knew Eragon was still the same hapless human beneath the scales, she marveled at the graceful power of his false form, the innate majesty even he carried himself with. She had never seen a dragon she could call ugly, and she doubted she ever would.

Blodgharm sighed, and Arya thought she a caught a wistful glimmer in his golden eyes. "Shadeslayer's life is like a legend of old. He, once a mere former, chosen by the world's last she-dragon as his Rider. Now, not only does he have her and King Eridor's spirit residing within him, but he has a true dragon's form, however impossible it may sound."

"Impossibility never stepped our kind from attempting the unthinkable." She pushed back memories of Idun's roaring screams. "And look where that got us."

The blue-furred elf stared at her challengingly. "That was years before Bjartskular's egg was rescued from the Empire's clutches. For all we knew, the King could have already been training his new order of Dragon Riders in secret. What options had we left?"

Arya gaped at him in disbelief. How did he not remember those who had paraded around in scales, breathing smoke from their nostrils long before the transformation spell had ever been formally suggested to Islanzadi? The fierce competition between potential candidates as they ruthlessly exposed and invented flaws of their competitors, high-ranking nobles rigging the selection for their favorite relatives, Islanzadi shaking off her court's cries of outrage as she nominated her eldest daughter above so many worthier elves...

"We paid for our infatuation," she said harshly, "and we paid for it dearly." She glared at Blodgharm with eyes as hard as emeralds. "You, Master Blodgharm, are extremely out of line for approaching your future queen so boldly."

"When you returned to Du Weldenvarden I gave you time to truly mourn Faolin's loss amongst our own kind." His amber eyes seemed torn between anger and yearning. "Do not forget who loved you first."

"Forget? _Forget!?_" Arya exploded, storming to the other elf. "How could I _forget _shaming myself in front my mother by traipsing around in nothing but scales? How could I forget you shunning me because the enchanters passed over you as a candidate?" Her vision clouded with tears that refused to fall. "How could I _forget _mourning my sister alone because you had vanished into the woods like a wild animal?"

Blodgharm drew back like a scolded dog. An overgrown, blue-furred mongrel. "I-"

"I _FORGET! _Before the Blood Wolf, the Shadow Stalker, the Night Crawler, the Lightning Serpent..." Her anger spent, she turned away, black hair masking her face. "I forget what I ever fell in love with. And I think you did, too."

She half-expected a furious rebuttal. Hearing only the desolate wind, she smiled humorlessly at the blue burr on the horizon. "A wild animal indeed."

* * *

Every child born into the Empire grew up knowing of the safety and prosperity King Galbatorix's protection provided them. Who else in Alagaesia were guaranteed such luxuries? The elves dwindled to nothing in their creeping forest, the dwarves cowered away in their mountain strongholds, and the Urgals mauled themselves over barren wastelands. Even the Surdans who trumpeted their independence still heavily relied on Imperial trade to keep their nation going.

Strange how many citizens these days had unfaithful hearts. Why did the northern farmers raise up arms against their fellow countrymen over taxes that supported the armies and the poorest members of the Empire? Why did so many living on the eastern border side with the rebels who devoured their crops and raided their towns? For what? To revolt against the hero who had toppled the Dragon Riders' tyranny?

It was why the Black Hand existed in the first place, to protect their fellow citizens from threats both internal and external. They were the elite magic-users sent out to nullify rogue sorcerers and magicians that devastated defenseless civilians with their unstoppable power. It was they who assassinated spies and traitors that sought to turn their own families over to the wolves. And Darnell was damned proud to be a part of it.

In the early days, the Black Hand had been forced to value quantity over quality. Sheer numbers were needed to keep the newly-established Empire from crumbling back into chaos. There were those in it only for money or power, willing to throw everything away for a better offer from the rebels. Others had been blackmailed or had loved ones taken for leverage. In some cases, Galbatorix had no choice but to use their true names, effectively binding them to his demands forever.

Those were the cowards that constantly pored over their oaths, searching for loopholes that would allow leniency or outright escape from their orders. Those that had nothing left to loose used their loopholes to end their own lives.

Darnell considered himself fortunate to have been born in age far removed from that perilous past. His comrades were true Imperials from all corners of the Empire. The Black Hand became family. If captured, a member would choose to take their own lives than endanger the lives and secrets of that family.

Darnell personally answered to the King himself. As one of the very few spies planted successfully in the Varden's upper ranks, any and all information he provided was priceless.

Such subterfuge took skill. As a member of the Du Vrangr Gata, he had to control his magic enough to stand out as neither a horrible failure or a master. His false thoughts and memories had to withstand the probes that furred elf and his spell-casters threw at him all day. But for such a great risk, Darnell was rewarded with the strengths and secrets of one of the rebellion's most vital branches. The Imperial soldiers who fought on the front lines, his son amongst them, had far less to fear when their magicians knew what they were up against.

If only his careful focused wasn't harmed by lack of sleep.

_Trapped! Trapped! Bound tightly, with no air left to scream, he did so anyway, vainly crying out for a rescuer that would never hear. Help! Why did no one ever-_

_For the first time_, _Darnell opened his eyes_ _and realized he was not the one bound and suffocating. He stood freely in a featureless gray landscape of swirling mist. It was entirely unremarkable, save for the dragon._

_Darnell blinked. Aye, the dragon. Many times his own puny size, its gray hide marred with scars, eyes closed. The dragon looked as if forced into an invisible eggshell. It was tightly curled into itself, wings mashed to its wing and its serpentine neck and tail uncomfortably to its sides._

_Darnell did the smart thing and ran for it._

_He stopped dead in his tracks, however, at the blood-chilling scream that pierced his mind and soul. Entirely silent, but not impotent, the human shuddered at its force._

_His brown eyes confusedly flickered back to the dragon. Imprisoned as it was, its muscles still spasmed wildly, struggling against invisible bonds for freedom. Darnell hesitantly opened his mind to it, reeling at the desperation and heart-wrenching hopelessness._

_Torn between common sense and completely insensible curiosity, Darnell glanced indecisively at the dragon and the relative safety of the rolling mists. Irrational mercy won out. The Black Hand hesitantly ventured back over to the dragon, pressing a hopefully soothing hand to its side._

_His world exploded into pain when skin met scales. The dragon's wings and tail lashed out, sending him flying into the mist. The tortured scream in Darnell's mind echoed with a very audible, very agonized roar._

_Rubbing his head dazedly, Darnell forced himself to sit up. The stone-gray beast was climbing slowly to its paws, flapping its wings and swinging its tail in wonderment._

_"Free," it- __**he **__murmured in an awed voice both real and mental. "How can I be-" _

_Gray eyes fixated on Darnell's prone form, widening momentarily in surprise before they narrowed in blazing hatred. Frantically reaching for magic that would not answer his summons, the man scrambled back. Not that it stopped a massive paw from pinning him to the ground as easily as a cat trapped a mouse. Like a nightmare (this was a nightmare, right?), the dragon loomed over him, opening his smoking maw to-_

_The fire died in the dragon's throat. His demonic snarl morphing into a critical stare, the beast scrutinized him closely. Partially lifting his paw, he brought a talon to the magician's chest. Darnell flinched back, but the claw-tip did not drive through his heart. It made contact, but did not puncture his skin. Something close to his heart warmed at the dragon's touch, a fiery heat that did not burn, reaching out for something kindred in the dragon._

_"Serdar?" the beast whispered bewilderingly._

_Darnell paused at the unknown name's sudden familiarity. In the mist behind him, something drowsily __stirred, in a state between dormancy and self-awareness._

_"No." The human magician shook his head, allowing the fire in his chest to die as the mist-shrouded thing behind him fell back into dreamless slumber. "My name is Darnell. Darnell Laufisson." The logical part of him scolded him for such blatant honesty. He acknowledged he probably should have used his rebel identity, Serveg Klausson, but felt the dragon would have probably impaled him for lying._

_The dragon cocked his head, silent for what seemed like lifetimes. Finally he answered, "I am Jarshan, son of Vanilor and Ocurni." As he stepped back, releasing the human from his grip, he reluctantly and sincerely added, "Thank you."_

_Darnell blinked. "For what?"_

_Jarshan fully unfurled his wings, making the human's breath hitch enviously at their majesty. "For answering me. I've been calling for so long I almost gave up, thinking those that heard my cries were just choosing to ignore them." He looked curiously at him. "You did not."_

_The Black Hand sarcastically stretched out his arms to the featureless landscape. "It's not as if I could run away." He lifted his head proudly. "My job is the opposite of that, actually."_

_"Indeed." The gray dragon sniffed disdainfully. "Why else would you have faced King Galbatorix's armies twice?"_

_Darnell almost went along with the misconception, at least until his impulsive side butted in for him: "Only because my master values the intelligence."_

_"The intelli-" Jarshan froze, looking at him almost... hopefully. "A spy for the King?"_

_The Black Hand cautiously considered his response. He remembered very few dragons had actually sided with Galbatorix in the war, so blinded were they by the Riders' propaganda. Only Shruikan, the Forsworn's dragons, and whatever eggs Galbatorix had salvaged from Doru Araeba had survived. The last Forsworn dragon, Morzan's, had died years ago, and all had been nameless due to some sort of curse from their own treacherous kind. Of course, nothing pointed to Jarshan still being alive..._

_"Aye," Darnell finally answered. "I take it you're still aware of the living world?"_

_"Aware enough," Jarshan growled, "before I'm forced back down into dormancy." He arched his head regally. "Tell me, human, does my name not sound familiar?"_

_Darnell scoured memories of his history lessons. Wasn't Vanilor the name of some important wild dragon? Catching the gruesome scar on Jarshan's chest, recognition dawned._

_"The last King dragon. The one who sided with Galbatorix."_

_Immensely pleased, Jarshan nodded. "At least you did not mistake the last for my __**brother**__." He hatefully spat a jet of flame at the word. "And in you, human Darnell, I have found an ally amongst enemies." His eyes glittered. "An ally, perhaps, loyal enough to get word of my existence back to Galbatorix."_

_"But aren't you, y'know..." How to put it tactfully? "Dead?"_

_Jarshan snorted. "As if death can hold a wild dragon forever. For the past thirteen years, I've lived. But it is a cruel mockery of a life, where I am bound to a part of myself that has become rotted. Galbatorix can... __**amputate **__the rot for me, truly bring me back."_

_Darnell looked the dragon over. "You look alright to me. A little scarred, aye, but not-"_

_The gray dragon held up his tail. Before Darnell's very eyes, the powerful limb wasted away, becoming __increasingly decayed down its length. Down the tail, the dull scales gave way only to atrophied muscle, than to bare bone that disintegrated to dark smoke that wound its way back into the mist._

_As if hauling a mountain behind him, Jarshan heaved himself forward, dragging his burden out of the mist. The dark smoke served as a chain, originating from the chest of a vaguely familiar boy. Struggling against the dragon's strength, the frantic boy tearfully locked eyes with Darnell, crying silently for help. He reminded Darnell painfully of how Bercan, his own boy, had looked as a young teenager._

_"Jarsha," Darnell muttered in recognition. "The messenger boy." He glanced indecisively at boy and dragon. "I-I don't-"_

_Behind him, that something in the mist stirred restlessly when his heart wrenched. Darnell's hands flew to his chest at the painful squeeze. The exact same spot where Jarshan was bound to the boy Jarsha. He remembered the great stone-gray dragon forced into an invisible prison. Unborn dragons surely slumbered peacefully inside their eggs, but when the time was right they woke up and hatched! Just like... Serdar would when death freed them both._

_But Jarshan was __**awake **__in a way he was never supposed to be. Trapped inside an egg that would not hatch, perhaps, for decades. Darnell had nearly been driven mad by just mere hours of that nightmare!_

_The Black Hand exhaled slowly, turning away from the... __**abomination **__as he focused solely on Jarshan. "Tell me what to do."_

_"Galbatorix," the dragon said urgently. "Bring me to Galbatorix. The oaths that help bind me to this world give me a way back. All my... master has to do is call."_

_"From where!?"_

_"From __**here**__."_

_Again, the dragon's talon touched a spot next to his heart, and Darnell knew._

* * *

___Before the transformation, before Eridor's rude awakening, in the trance that had replaced true sleep, he had walked a thin line between waking and dreaming. Sometimes his visions were intense, but unlike before the Blood-Oath Ceremony, he knew himself dreaming, constantly shifting between images as his mind preferred._

___But while his dragon body slept, his dream-self carried him on two legs. Vividly, he relived childhood games of hide-and-go-seek with Roran, cradled a newly-hatched Saphira, held a dying Brom as he divulged his last and greatest secret, and was soundly rejected by Arya even after being gifted with inhuman strength and beauty._

___Dragon claws were for killing. In dreams his agile human fingers entwined with those of his childhood girlfriend's (lost that winter to pneumonia), wrote and scratched out lines of his embarrassing poem attempts for the ceremony, and scratched that one spot behind Saphira's left horn. Dragon sounds were for intimidating, for roaring and growling. Again and again, his human voice laughed, drunkenly sang alongside Roran's, formed stupid questions that earned him impatient looks from his teachers._

___He did not remember the exact point where human fingers became talons digging into his first truly caught prey, a scrawny deer, a catch that made even him proud. When did he exchange human words completely for the thoughts and emotions that kept him and Saphira connected at all times, human laughter for the content hum of when he got someone to rub that one spot between his horns?_

___He knew, however, that point came long before Eridor invaded his dreams with Safiri and Jarshan and ____Father-King Vanilor. He knew, in his heart of his hearts, that sooner or later, the human brown of his eyes would have inevitably given way to burning blue._

___But Eragon did wonder, when the guilty dreams of Arya and Trianna and that one childhood girlfriend faded away forever, who had replaced them? Eridor's Safiri or his Saphira?_

**Galbatorix's reactions: Logically, Galbatorix should have just ambushed Eragon and Saphira somewhere, and his problems would've been solved. But since he's cuckoo, you can expect the opposite of logic. I've also upped his apathy toward things not directly involved with his goals (like human lives) to fit with a changed interpretation of his character.**

**Arya and Blodgharm: Blodgharm (known by a different name at the time) was basically Arya's stupid-mistake-teenage-boyfriend ('cause we all have one.) They were both part of the fad of running around in scales when the whole "resurrecting the dragon race" thing was big. Long story short; Blodgharm wanted to be one of the elves chosen to become a dragon, got pissed Arya didn't use her princess powers to get him in, and ran off to angst as all true teenage boys do. In doing so he missed the whole plan going horribly, horribly wrong, and wasn't there to comfort Arya over Idun's suicide. And he wonders why she won't take him back!**

**Blodgharm's Character: The whole blue fur and "Blood Wolf" thing is only Blodgharm's most recently assumed identity. About every decade or so he gets bored and gives himself a whole new appearance and name (Night Crawler, one of his past identities, as an obvious shout-out to a certain X-Men). Blodgharm, however, is so caught up not even he remembers who he was.**

**The Black Hand/Darnell: Originally many of the Black Hand were forced into being members, with Darnell as the inexplicably evil exception. Instead, the forced Black Hands are only a relic of a chaotic past. Darnell is just a loyal guy standing up for what he was raised to believe in. Understandably, most people would be pretty horrified at being pressed into such a tight space for God knows how many decades. Darnell doesn't want to kill Jarsha or anything, he just wants to get Jarshan the hell out of him before they both go insane from their situation. (He's also a reborn dragon here- thus how he was able to reach out to Jarshan. Thankfully, Sernar is dormant instead of living in a constant claustrophobic hell.)**

**Jarshan: Again, since Jarshan isn't a generic bad guy anymore, the old menacing scene no longer fit. Instead he is an awakened dragon-soul forcibly trapped in a body not his own, and is suffering every minute of it. He's been crying for help for a very, very long time. He was just lucky Darnell managed to rescue him before he was driven completely psycho.**

**Eragon: I've been rereading ****Animorphs ****lately. Tobias, one of the main characters, is trapped as a red-tailed hawk early on in the series and initially struggles to come to terms with his own reality and his slowly fading human past. Eragon, who knows from Arya's horror story that is chances of changing back are basically zip, has gradually resigned himself to this. The shift in his dreams is just something that's been happening gradually over the past few chapters. (Also, are those some ExS hints I'm spotting?)**


	14. Act II: Chapter 1: Violet Updated

**2/11 Update: This chapter was one of the hardest I've had to rewrite**. **The characters have changed so much since this story's beginning. Hopefully this update accounts for that. Remember, if certain characters seem more mindlessly evil or stupid in the following chapters, it's because they haven't been updated yet.**

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _belongs to Chris Paolini. All original material belongs to me.**

Saphira lay curled up around Eragon's empty tent. Since the Varden believed she was still a Rider's dragon, she often lazed around pretending to be keeping a close eye on her human. The _real _Eragon, the silvery-white dragon, rested a respectful distance from her, not wanting to throw any more fuel onto the rumor fire. Beneath the blazing sun, Eragon could barely fend off his drowsiness. His dragon body only wanted to bask in the warmth. Too bad Eridor was too persistent to let him.

_Must we learn about the mating season **again? **_he grumbled. _Saphira and I already learned everything about that, including the... mechanics. _He suppressed a shudder, remembering how _graphically _Glaedr had described the process. Eragon was still traumatized._  
_

Eridor growled irritably. Had it been physically possible, Eragon expected his uninvited guest would have cuffed him. _I have no doubt you know about the basics. Brom taught you the rudiments of the wild dragons' mating cycle. But, as I can recall, Glaedr went into detail only about **Riders' **dragons. Your knowledge on your own kind remains disappointingly lacking._

Saphira snorted, releasing twin puffs of smoke. _What does it matter? Save for the bond a dragon may share with a Rider, they are virtually identical to their wild counterparts.__  
_

_Precisely, Saphira. _Eragon rolled his eyes, knowing the former King was about to launch into yet another lecture. _Riders'__ dragons are bonded to their human or elf first and foremost. Upon forming that connection, the dragon loses most of its instinctual edge, becoming more inclined to listen to reason over their rage or pride. They can procreate at any time of the year, lay eggs in the height of summer or dead of winter. Wild dragons, on the other paw, adhere to a strict cycle. They will become receptive to mating only when autumn rolls around, which is why Riders' dragons considered it such a feat to take a wild dragon as their mate._

_So what does this have to do with us? _Eragon drawled. _Saphira and I aren't planning to start families anytime soon._

_You two are both certainly over six months old, little hatchling! _Eridor snapped. _You are also the world's **only **wild dragons, both completely unfamiliar with your hormonal urges. Do the math._

In embarrassment, Saphira flicked her eyes away from Eragon, clearly remembering how she had first mooned over Glaedr.

Eragon remained quiet. He had been only fifteen when destiny had forced him out of Carvahall. His experience with girls had been pathetically limited to one-sided crushes and week-long dating disasters. His following adventures with an old man and a she-dragon had prevented any further romantic self-discoveries. Since then, his love life had included only his humiliating infatuation with Arya, that dance with an elf-woman during the Blood-Oath Ceremony, and the one time Trianna had attempted to seduce him.

_Then we're doomed, _Saphira surmised grimly. _Unless you know something that can help us. The elves had wards that protected them from the fertility spells they used on Du Weldenvarden. There's a way to avoid being seduced by the cat-elf's scent. Perhaps we can ask for Arya to help devise a similar defense against our instincts?_

Eridor paused, his mind so unreadable not even Eragon knew what he was thinking about. _Saphira, _he began at last, _thi__nk back to your days in the egg, when you sensed Eragon for the first time, your utter feeling of completeness at the slightest touch of his mind. Is there a spell in this world that could have prevented you from binding your soul to his?_

The two dragons locked eyes, the answer needing no words.

_Neither elves nor humans can regularly bind themselves so deeply with another living being, _Eridor continued. _When Bid'Daum hatched for your namesake, Eragon, he bonded his very heart and soul to him. Once in their lives, wild dragons do the same, when they select their mate of mind, body, and soul. The spell later developed made sure unhatched dragons could form that intimate bond only with a Rider of their choosing. As the pact binds you two together no longer, your souls will once more seek unity. You tell me if your souls can resist **that**._

Eragon buried his snout into his paws, hating the confirmation of his darkest fears. No matter how close he and Saphira still felt, the pact between Rider and dragon entwined their souls no longer. Their new instincts, with or without their conscious consent, would rectify that, forcing them together in way neither he or Saphira wanted.

_Were **you **forced into this predicament, too?_ he couldn't help but ask.

_No, _Eridor honestly replied. _In my time, wild dragons had the entire clan's experience to help them manage their base impulses, bonds of family and friendship that helped negate the strongest urges to bind their soul with another. Safiri and I were not mated until two autumns after we first met. Some dragons were content to live their entire lives as bachelors, or to platonically bond with a close friend or sibling. Hell, some choose mates of the same gender, or a union that stands no chance of producing young.  
_

_What if the summer was bad? _Saphira cocked her head curiously. _If the eggs of last season had not hatched, would the she-dragon still lay another clutch?_

Eridor choked in horror. _Good gods, no! I cannot even imagine how long I would have lasted if forced to raise twice or thrice the amount of hatchlings just because they chose not to hatch on time. The presence of eggs or young dragons prevents the she-dragon's body from producing any more. _He retreated deeper into Eragon's mind, emotions becoming unreadable. _As there is one egg left in the world, and he is obviously out of our reach, I would just advise separating for the mating season's duration._

The two living dragons gaped at each other in horror. Since Saphira's hatching, they had never been apart for too long. How could they bear to remain separated at a time when their souls screamed to fully unite once more?

Eragon was interrupted from his thoughts by one of the elves guarding 'his' tent giving him a subtle nod. Right, his human self had a meeting with Nasuada's council today about his dragon self, his _real self!_

Saphira couldn't help but chuckle at his dread as she rose to her paws and unfurled her wings. _Good luck with the awkwardness, 'little one.'_

The white dragon bid her a grumpy farewell and focused his mind on the projection of his human form emerging from his tent. Speaking through the insubstantial illusion of his past self still creeped him out, but it still beat conversing with the dead dragon camped out inside his mind.

* * *

For gods knew how long, Saphira flew around in search of something to do. The barren plains offered no prey large enough for her to consider going after. There wasn't much else to see aside from the noxious fumes spewing forth from the ground and the fresh mass graves from the earlier battles. Too worked up from her grim conversation with Eridor, even a refreshing noonday nap was out of the question.

Aside from Eragon and his uninvited guest, who else was there to talk to? Nasuada and Arya were both involved in the meeting. Orik and his dwarves had long since returned to Farthen Dur. Roran was always demanding to know why Eragon avoided him, and Saphira hadn't the heart to lie. Angela was Angela. Blodgharm's elves thought they were unworthy of her personal attention. Orrin asked too many questions about how a creature her size could fly, as if magic wasn't enough of an explanation!

Well, she could always torture the answers she wanted out of Solembum, but the damned crafty werecat had been evading her since their last cryptic discussion.

So Saphira had hunkered herself down amongst the tents, idly watching the surrounding activity. Most stayed well clear of her, watching her warily as they quickly skirted past her resting place. Why were humans such contradictory creatures? The same soldiers who had cheered for her mere days ago now treated her as an escaped wild beast. How many even knew she not only understood their language, but could communicate quite easily with them?

"Please, child, will you come back?" An old woman hobbled past Saphira as if she were not there at all, eyes glittering with unshed tears as she bent down to open a tent flap. With a jolt, the she-dragon recognized her as Greta, Elva's guardian and care-taker. "You're humiliating yourself in front of all these men, you are."

Elva stormed past the old woman, knocking her out of the way. She had grown older in the short time since the past Battle of the Burning Plains, more like a girl of five or six than one half that age. Her black hair was longer, skin paler, face even more haggard. Still, the silver mark upon her forehead glowed as bright as ever. Her violet eyes burned with a furious intensity Saphira had never remembered seeing in a human.

"Gods, woman!" she exclaimed in her unnerving adult's voice. "Stop treating me like a defenseless infant! Stop calling me by a name that isn't mine! I don't need you, I _never _needed you!"

"But it is your name," Greta protested pitifully. Tears now flowed freely down her face. "It is the name your mother graced you with before she died, may she rest in peace. You dishonor her by mutilating her final gift to you." She stepped pleadingly toward the girl, arms extended. "She passed you into my arms and asked that I look after you."

"Look after?" Elva laughed harshly, ignorant of the staring soldiers and she-dragon. "Who begged Shadeslayer to bless me? Who begged him to _damn _me?"

Greta wailed, falling to her knees in despair. "Oh, my cherished Elvana-"

Saphira didn't have time to process the information before Elva's furious shriek drowned out her thoughts. Looking ready to strike the old woman, she snarled accusingly at her. "You hag, you damned hag, _Elvana is DEAD!"_

The girl finally took notice of Saphira, locking eyes with her. The she-dragon tensed at the stare's burning intensity, but stood transfixed, peering deep into their violet depths. What other human had eyes so bright, so pained, so ancient? What other being had _slitted _pupils? A _dragon's _pupils?

Saphira knew those eyes...

_Her vantage was higher, her body older and stronger, but she was strangely accustomed to this form, unlike in regular ancestral memories. Even her scales were still blue, if a lighter shade. Had she not been years, perhaps decades, older than her true self, she could almost mistake the memory as her own._

_She bent down to sorrowfully nudge the cool, limp form at her feet. In life the onyx-scaled dragon must have been the handsome pride of his mate. Now, his life and dignity stripped of him, his belly had been slashed open like prey, his innards partially devoured. His half-open eyes still vacantly stared into nothingness._

_Past the male's corpse rested an adult female and her newly-hatched brood. They too lay forever still, the mother's throat torn open, her hatchlings barely recognizable as such. An entire family, perhaps an entire line, stamped out._

_Growling hatefully, she slashed at the Urzhad's moaning form, cutting off its pained protests once and for all. Disturbed from its winter hibernation, perhaps by the unusual shortage of autumn food, it had undoubtedly gone after the closest food source. By the scorch-marks singing its fur, the parent dragons had fiercely defended their brood to the death. If only the Urzhad had been less desperate, or the parents larger and more experienced.  
_

_She shook her head, easily able to piece together what had led to this tragedy. Adults these dragons may have been, but she still had children their size that had not sought out mates of their own. Dragons of such size should have still been under the protection of a clan._

_ Had they been driven out by their elders for breaking the clan's code? In difficult seasons it was not uncommon for the youngest and lowest-ranked members to be prevented from seeking mates, anything to ensure more prey and attention for the broods of more senior pairs. Perhaps this reckless couple had disobeyed and hte clan figured it had had enough mouths to feed?_

_With the prime pieces of local territory already vigilantly defended by well-established clans that had no room for unwelcome strangers, and with the female expecting, the pair had frantically searched for a patch of land to call their own. One in a rugged, prey-poor area with few caves that even dragons their small size could inhabit. No wonder they had chosen a shelter so vulnerable to intrusion._

_She had only strayed so far from her home territory to check up on a daughter who was trying to establish a clan of her own in previously unclaimed space. It had been pure chance she had stumbled onto the female's dying cries while returning to her own family._

_Not that pure chance had saved even the innocent hatchlings from-_

_A tentative peep disrupted her thoughts. Her head snapped up, blue eyes scanning the cave for signs of life. A blood-soaked hatchling cautiously peaked out from behind its mother's corpse. Ignoring the stranger, it butted its mother's side insistently, trying in vain to rouse her from an eternal slumber.  
_

_How had this little hatchling been spared the fate of its family? It had been the only one smart enough to hide. When the father had fallen, his children had instinctively leaped to his aid, despite their mother's protesting cries. How easily the Urzhad must have swept them aside, shattering their spines with one lazy blow. Only one had obeyed its mother, huddling behind her to the bloody end._

_Carefully, oh so carefully, she advanced toward the little orphan. The hatchling's head snapped up, eyes regarding her warily. Certainly it had never known another dragon except her own family._

_She opened her mind, revealing nothing except honest love and warmth. **Hush, little one. The nightmare is over.**_

_The hatchling didn't hesitate. It rushed over to her side, pressing its shivering form against her legs. Tenderly, she bent down to clean the gore from its scales while her mind gently pushed into its memories. _

_Her dark theory was confirmed: like the dutiful daughter she was, the hatchling had hid behind her mother even as her family's lives had been extinguished one by one._

**_Such color,_**_she cooed, smoothing over such dark memories with gentle admiration. The hatchling's cleaned scales was a stunning dark violet, an intense hue rare for their kind. **Your new siblings shall be jealous of you.**_

_Her latest brood, an unusually large number of six, had all decided to hatch on time, food shortage or not. Six hungry, demanding mouths all jostling for food and attention. Of course there were other brooding females in her clan, daughters and grand-daughters and soul-daughters with far smaller clutches. As their Queen, the most senior she-dragon of their race, let alone their clan, they would do anything requested of them. _

_She looked down into the hatchling's intense eyes. She would just old enough to comprehend what had befallen her birth family. Anguish shone in those violet depths, a dark vengeance smoldering just beneath. And it was she, the Queen of the dragons, who would purge the darkness from this hatchling's heart._

**_Elva. What a pretty name.  
_**The memories flashed through Saphira's at a swifter pace. Elva was raised amongst that dragon family, squabbling and bonding with six new brothers and sisters. Two did not survive to maturity, one lost to starvation and the other to sickness, but such was the way of things for a wild dragon. The violet-scaled hatchling had grown into a breath-taking she-dragon, albeit one forever quiet and cynical. She had taken a mate and started a family of her own. But, while her adoptive nest-mates had been pushed to the fringes of their clan's territory when old enough, she had maintained a place of honor close to the central cave.

Until that Queen and her King were forced to flee their home and family.

Saphira blinked dazedly, at last coming back to herself. But the somber eyes of the violet hatchling remained, now set in the human Elva's haggard face.

Greta had long since fled, her cries distant. The soldiers caught up in watching the strange spectacle wisely made themselves scarce.

Saphira cared for none of them except this relic from a by-gone past, the soul of a dead dragon who clung to life in the same way Eridor did, the cursed little girl who stared right back at her.

Countless emotions flickered across Elva's pale features. She settled for a wan smile.

"I believe now is the time to locate the King and his idiot, Saphira Bjartskular," she said in that disconcertingly familiar voice. "The time for secrets is over."

* * *

Night hung over camp like a great raven, daybreak hours away. A growing boy his age should not have been out at such an ungodly time. Any sensible adult would have scolded him so. But who was there to tell him otherwise? The closest sentries were seemingly leagues away, no more than bobbing globes of orange light in the distance.

While days on the Burning Plains were sometimes hot enough to bake men in their chain-mail until they were blistering red, nights were could enough to give a careless sentry's unprotected fingers frostbite. Shielded from the cold by only breeches and a thin blanket, a shivering Jarsha had to agree.

Still, freezing to death was a far better alternative than falling asleep. Slumber now held the maddening screams and all-consuming fury of the _prisoner._

He suffered for his sleep loss in spacing out on duty and startling at every small noise. Suspicions were mounting. His superiors were threatening him with punishments they didn't follow through with only because Jarsha served as Nasuada's designated messenger to 'King Dragon.' Irvard, on a completely different work schedule, kept asking him to talk to someone about his problems. Nolfavrell constantly threatened to rat him out to Angela if he didn't seek help himself. Only Jarsha's pleas had kept the newest messenger boy from following through with his promise... _yet._

Because, no matter what anybody said, _no one _could help him. The healers would look into his mind and see what creature he chained in there. Like the prisoner (_the raging dragon)_ and the man in his dreams, they too would hate him for what he couldn't control. Jarsha didn't want to know what they would do to him to try and free that _thing _smoldering in his mind, not when it no longer belonged in this world.

Jarsha dared a glance up at the clear night sky, remembering long ago times when he had seen only the timeless beauty of the stars. Now, however, the glittering multitude had become Kings and Queens and brothers and sisters. They all stared down at him, an insignificant little page who carried destiny within him. A destiny that raged against his prison and mourned what had become of his world.

Microscopic in the face of the staring stars, Jarsha fixed his gaze downward. Their unblinking stares still bore pits into the depths of his soul.

_Crunch. _The sound of dried, brittle grass crushed beneath careless human feet.

Jarsha's head snapped up like a frightened deer. "Who's there?"

The figure was large, masculine, and didn't carry a sentry's lantern. Straining his eyes against the darkness, Jarsha thought he recognized the man's face. He was a member of the Du Vrangr Gata. Before being given his 'unique' assignment, Jarsha had used to deliver him summons from his superiors.

Gradually, Jarsha relaxed. _Of course he'd be worried about me. I'm shivering out here in breeches and a blanket!_

Embarrassed he couldn't remember the man's name, he called out, "I'm fine, sir, really-"

The magician locked gazes with him, eyes flashing inhumanly bright in the darkness. They pierced straight through Jarsha, straight through to the dragon sealed in the depths of his soul.

Again sensing that kindred soul, the dragon threw himself at the walls of his invisible prison. Jarsha's head rang with his desperate pleas.

Darnell's resolve hardened, and all doubts in what he was about to do vanished.

A sharp spell cut off the scream building in the boy's scream. Jarsha toppled forward into the first dreamless sleep he'd had in weeks.

**Mating/bonding: My concept of wild dragons has changed. Originally all young wild dragons felt the urge to mate recklessly in autumn and have lots of babies by winter. I've reworked that concept to have dragons that choose to never bond to another, or have completely platonic BFF/sibling bonds, and romantic pairings that could never result in offspring (yay for love transcending all barriers!)**

**Eragon and Saphira are the exception to these new rules because: a.) They're hormonal teenagers completely unused to wild dragon instincts. b.) Instincts to repopulate have never been stronger. c.) Eragon's transformation into a dragon has severed the Rider-dragon bond. He and Saphira remain as close as they are because their minds cannot comprehend being so distant from each other. Their changed bodies, however, feel that bond is... unconsummated, and would really much like to be 'made complete' again.**

**Jarsha and Darnell: Jarsha isn't so much tormented by an evil dragon than feeling the pain of a very hurt, very angry dragon trapped unwillingly inside of his mind. Darnell isn't kidnapping Jarsha to get evil brownie points with Galbatorix, but trying to free what he sees as an imprisoned person in need of help. Remember that Jarshan is _dead _and _really, really_****not supposed to be up and walking around again.**


	15. Act II: Chapter 2: Witness Updated

**4/13 Edit: God, it's been a while since I updated this. Blame this chapter and the last one for being the hardest two to edit. Closed up several plot-holes here and entirely rewrote the first segment to add new story content.**

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _does not belong to me. All original material does.**

Even though his physical body still rested near the tent, Eragon's mind was projected entirely into the illusion maintained for him by Blodgharm's spell-casters. Despite its intricacies, the enchantment was far from substantial, meaning any solid object would pass through it like air. To a dragon's sharp eyes, the human illusion looked blurry around the edges, minute imperfections not even such a complex spell could mask.

To keep the sharp-eyed from noticing anything suspicious, Eragon Shadeslayer purposefully remained confined to his tent for 'classified research.' The gossip-mongers filled in the blanks for him. But the sudden appearance of a new dragon, a _King _dragon, allied to the rebel cause was something that needed to be dealt with. The Council of Elders had not been satisfied with the vague explanation Saphira had given the day the new dragon had single-handedly driven back Murtagh's forces.

Eragon had collaborated with Nasuada and the elves to work out a plausible origin story for the dragon most simply called 'Majesty.' Before the highest-ranked members of the rebellion, Eragon had told a heavily edited version of events of what had conspired at Helgrind.

Upon landing, Roran had gone off in search of Katrina and Eragon and Saphira had been attacked by the Ra'zac and their parents. Fact and fiction diverged from there. Eragon and Saphira had not been completely powerless and overwhelmed by their enemies, saved only by Eridor's intervention, but had triumphed after a fierce struggle (explaining the ugly injuries Saphira had been spotted with.)

With the last monster vanquished, Rider and dragon had explored the area the Lethrblaka had been fiercely guarding. They had discovered a white dragon not much older than Saphira shackled right in Helgrind's heart, grievously wounded and close to death. Eragon had remained behind to tend to the dragon while Saphira had urgently returned Roran and Katrina to the Varden. Unsure if the white dragon would survive, they had deliberately kept its existence secret to avoid raising false hopes.

Due to Eragon's careful ministrations, the white dragon had healed enough for the return flight to the Burning Plains. He and Saphira had helped 'Majesty' recover fully. As the white dragon remained wary of strangers, Eragon had obeyed his request for secrecy, revealing his existence only to Nasuada and Arya. When Blodgharm and his spell-casters had arrived, their priorities then included protecting Majesty and helping to convince him to join the Varden's cause.

"Then Saphira, the one dragon he knew, was endangered by Thorn," Eragon finished easily. "His Majesty could not bear keeping his secret any longer, and officially proclaimed himself against the Empire and a member of our cause."

Trianna's sharp eyes never left his form. Had Eragon's human body not been an illusion, he surely would have swallowed at her intense scrutiny. "And where were you during the battle, _Master Shadeslayer? _Surely Saphira would not have been endangered if you were astride her?"

Eragon willed his human projection to meet her accusing gaze evenly. "It has been no secret how isolated I've been as of late. His Majesty carried valuable information with him. Information too valuable to be ignored. I was away investigating. Master Blodgharm and his elves covered for my absence." The illusion nodded gratefully at the spell-casters present.

The council went silent as they processed this. Orrin, his frantic mind whirring behind his eyes, mouthed "_More _dragons?" incredulously. He straightened in his chair, nearly bursting with anticipating. "Where did his... Majesty come from, exactly?"

_Let me handle this, _Eridor suddenly cut in, emerging from the recesses of his mind.

Eragon jolted in surprise, his physical body momentarily jerking with him. _Why? _he hissed back. _We already planned for this! Besides, i__t's not as if you were jumping to help before! _Back when the explanation for Eragon's dragon body and his human side's mysterious absence was being formulated, Eridor had remained silent throughout the entire process, neither contributing to their efforts or criticizing them.

_This story will inevitably reach Oromis and the elves of Du Weldenvarden, _Eridor growled firmly. _Elves that know far more about the inner workings of wild dragons than the cat-elf and his merry band of simpletons. Despite the Varden's best efforts, it will also leak to Galbatorix, who knows just as much. Your story will not match up with accepted knowledge of King dragons. Do you wish to be found out by the King so early?_

Eragon paused, knowing each moment of hesitation raised more alarm bells in the council. _...Fine._

He grudgingly stepped aside, allowing Eridor's part of the mind access to the illusion. The enchantment had been specifically crafted with Eragon's true voice in mind. No matter how different he and Eridor truly sounded, the dead King's voice through the projection was identical. Aside from the proud stance the human illusion suddenly adapted, the regal way he held his head, and the sternly confident tone in his voice, there was no telling the two had swapped places.

"As you know through Saphira, dragon eggs can lay dormant for decades," Eridor replied smoothly. "Yet even then, the infant inside is still capable of forming and retaining primitive memories."

Orrin's eyes widened in understanding. "You pieced together the story from his recollections?"

Eridor willed the projection to dip its head. "Aye. His Majesty remembers great commotion rocking his egg, the panic of his kin before their minds were snuffed out, and then a long period of quiet. He hatched alone, decades later, in a lifeless cave strewn with the bones of his family."

"The Forsworn relentlessly killed wild dragons in search for more eggs," a silver-haired elf, Sindri, recalled. "His mother obviously chose to sacrifice herself over giving him up."

"And then her corpse sheltered him for nigh over a century," Eridor concluded grimly. "He hatched amongst her bones and raised himself for the first few months of his life." At several incredulous looks, he simply added, "Dragon hatchlings are self-sufficient the first day out of the egg."

"Fascinating," Trianna drawled. "And how he wound up amongst the enemy?"

"Instinct initially kept him close to his family's ancestral territory. Only when he was older did his Majesty feel the urge to search for answers. Even then, he felt something was off, for he had unnatural control over his innate powers, far more than what instinct told him was normal."

Eridor wove a tale so vivid even _Eragon_ himself believed he had hatched a wild dragon. Eridor left deliberate gaps in the narrative the council filled with the 'missing' information; during his explorations the young King had stumbled into other wild dragons that had survived the Fall by concealing themselves on the highest and most remote peaks of the Beor Mountains. Amongst the survivors, the young King had realized his true role, and despite the pleas of his clan, traveled west to discover if other survivors hid within the Spine. It was flying near Helgrind that the Lethrblaka had subdued him, locking their prize away for the Ra'zac to interrogate.

"And thus we have come full circle," Eridor finished smoothly. He willingly stepped aside for Eragon to reclaim control of the illusion. No one seemed to notice the sudden shift in the illusion's posture as the regal tilt of the head vanished.

Eridor once again became withdrawn as Eragon wrapped up the meeting with formalities and idle pleasantries with those present, finding excuses to avoid any physical contact. Trianna's narrowed eyes never left his form, as if she were trying to pierce right through the magic. The elven spell-casters grew weary of the scrutiny, granting Eragon the signal to move the illusion back to 'his' tent out of the public eye.

That potential disaster averted, Eragon returned to his physical body. Blinking open his eyes, he stretched languidly. The dragon form of flesh and bone felt far more natural control than the projection of his past self.

_Thank you for that, _Eragon murmured gratefully to the silent section of his shared mind. _Even I started believing your story back there. _Part of him still wondered at the strong undertones of truth that flowed beneath sections of the lie, but for the sake of maintaining peace with Eridor, Eragon wisely kept his questions to himself.

_King and Queen dragons are almost exclusively born from a 'royal' line. Safiri and I died during the nesting season. You bear striking resemblance to my original body, six horns and all. All I did was piece together the facts you-_

Saphira's presence interrupted him. She called for them _both_ to meet her at a private place outside of camp. Someone was with her, a someone that carried _vital _information.

* * *

Elva stood calmly before them, cold and untouchable as ice. While ordinary children her age would be trembling in fright or awe when peering up at two giant dragons, she remained disturbingly unfazed. Her violet eyes were an unreadable maelstrom of emotion. She undoubtedly still despised Eragon for accidentally cursing her with such an enormous burden, especially when he was now permanently trapped in a form unable to rectify his grievous mistake.

"Shadeslayer," she murmured without dipping her head in respectful acknowledgement. "I see you've ascended the political latter. You are now a _King _instead of a Rider." Saphira bared the smallest bit of ivory fang at the girl's mocking tone, but Eragon remained silent. He was in no mood to argue, not when she held his two greatest secrets at her mercy.

Her violet eyes intensely stared into his own, as if looking into his very soul. No, she was gazing past his mind, his memories, to a part older than Eragon's very consciousness. Staring right at a secret not even Trianna had detected.

To Eragon's gaping astonishment, Elva knelt down before his paws. Brushing her raven hair back, she exposed her bare neck to him. Instinctively he knew this bow as one of the greatest respect and honor, a dragon submitting completely to a far stronger superior.

Exactly how Vanilor had submitted to him in Eridor's memories upon relinquishing his kingship to the obvious successor.

"Eridor Bluefire," she breathed reverently. She climbed to her feet, always gazing past Eragon to the spirit that lay within him. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I thought we'd never be able to talk like this again, my King."

Eridor's mind broadened to encompass Elva and Saphira. His voice rang with paternal affection Eragon had never heard from him before. _I am neither King, nor Highness, nor Majesty, little Elva, not to you._

At Eragon's confusion, the barriers that so closely guarded Eridor's memories lowered, allowing him a rare glimpse in.

Eridor had accepted the purple newcomer riding upon Safiri's back without hesitation. After all, he'd always had a weakness for hatchlings. Despite the lack of blood relations, Eridor had closely bonded with his adopted daughter. Where her surviving nestmates had gradually moved away from the main cave to the fringes of the territory, she had remained a constant fixture to the main cave, her own hatchlings one day tussling alongside his and Safiri's latest brood.

Until it was decided the cave he and Safiri had called their home for decades was no longer safe. Completely cut off from their clan, his adopted daughter included, Eridor and his mate had spent their last lonely months hiding away from Galbatorix... in vain.

At the white dragon's pertrubed silence, Elva cracked a wan smile. "You have shown the stone-head our shared past," she told Eridor, "but you've yet to show him how I'm here today."

Eridor snorted wearily. _King I might once have been, little Elva, but I am no exception to the rule. I slumbered before awakening like this, scarcely stirring, and I slumbered deep._

"She knew." Elva nodded at Saphira, who snorted dubiously. "Certainly not you, Brightscales, but _her. _Didn't something tell you to intervene the day you first met me, a blissfully ignorant baby?"

Hesitantly, Saphira bowed her head. _The day you blessed Elva, little one, I could not shake off the feeling something had gone horribly wrong. You were so nervous that day, so afraid to make a mistake in front of those who hailed you as a savior, that I couldn't bear to rattle your confidence. _She paused. _Something told me to press my snout to her forehead, that it would help balance out the damage, so I did. I... I thought it was just instinct, my magic trying to make itself known!_

"And that 'something' was Queen Safiri, for she chose to bond her soul to the last egg laid on Vroengard," Elva replied bluntly. Eragon and Saphira disbelievingly gaped at each other. Unreadable, Eridor said nothing. "You are an offshoot of her soul, completely independent, save for when Safiri decides to suggest something to you. But, though she stirs, she will never awaken." She ogled at the white dragon that held Eridor's soul. "Not like you did."

_I died unavenged, with vows unfulfilled, with the power to fight tooth and claw against the void of death, _Eridor growled grimly. _Safiri had made her peace, trusted her reincarnation and those of the new generation to right the wrongs she and I never could. I will not, can not, rest like her until justice is wrought._

Before anyone could speak up on this, he focused his mind on Elva, mind sharp with disapproval. _Which rebirth concerns me more, Elva, is your own. Why choose now, a time when the war is escalating in the first time in decades? Why, of all possible bodies, one of a poor Varden girl?_

Sharp violet eyes closed. "I... find it... _difficult _to relate to the time between my two lives. Up there I was so at peace, so disconnected with the brief and petty lives of mortals, that I'm no longer sure why I chose to fall." Her brow furrowed. "But I remember you had fallen, too, into a life of sorrow and bloodshed. You and Safiri had been in my life from practically the beginning and to lose you both, however temporarily, from the stars was more than I could bear."

Elva smiled, her haggard face brightening in a way Eragon hadn't thought possible. "Then I sensed this young Varden couple. They were so _excited _to welcome their first child into the world, bickering over names and its gender, and I wanted so badly to be part of it. So I became their baby girl. And at Elvana's first cries I slept, content she would have the loving life with her birth parents I never had."

The smile vanished. "And then my- _Elvana's _father stopped coming home. He was a soldier who took an arrow to the wrong area during a skirmish. Out of sleepless nights borne from his absence, his wife sickened and could not find the strength to recover, not even for her daughter. Greta, an old friend of Elvana's grandmother, took me in. For a while, things between us were fine, and then..."

_I came along, _Eragon blurted out. _I was so overwhelmed with the crowd, felt so undeserving of their reverence, that I **had **to prove myself worthy to them, to bless you when Greta demanded it of me. And then a simple miswording made you a shield against the pain and misfortune of others._

"Your spell sickened me immediately after you cast it," she spat out, eyes still closed. "Elvana wanted to scream her head off. But then _she _touched her and, for the first time in my new life, I looked out through Elvana's eyes and saw the she-dragon that so resembled my dead surrogate mother; Safiri, reaching out from beyond a stranger's soul to alleviate her child's sufferings. The human baby she left in her wake housed not one conscious soul, but two."

Elva's eyes opened with smoldering fury. "Like me, Elvana felt compelled to stop every accident, to heal every wound, to soothe every broken heart. Every time she couldn't broke her just a little bit more, wore away at what made me _me _and her _her_."

_The magic! _Saphira interjected. _Didn't it try to help y__ou in some way? Make you grow faster?_

"NO!" Elva snarled. "Though Elvana could barely crawl, let alone understand the agonies she was forced to shoulder, the magic felt compelled only to remind her of her duties. But I was awake, and though also under the curse, I had a dragon's strength and magic behind me. I manipulated the body as well as I could into growing faster, making us more capable of fulfilling the magic's requirements. For Elvana's sake I took control of our body; walking for her, speaking for her, healing for her. Still, her condition deteriorated, for not even I could fully shield her from the agony of others."

Her voice faltered, before it became venomous, hurling the next words out as if they were foul others. "Elvana did not die, Shadeslayer, she _withered. _Thar poor, poor little girl could not bear the sufferings your spell forced onto her and she faded away until there was only me."

The terrible reality sank in. Eragon _screamed, _his horror and self-loathing ringing in every mind around him until Eridor forced his mental barriers up. The white dragon emptied the contents of his stomach right at Elva's feet.

Despite the hem of her skirt now being filthy with vomit, Elva ruthlessly carried on. "It is only thanks to Saphira's intervention that I survived, unlike that little girl who you-"

Saphira cut her off with a bone-rattling growl. _You have made yourself clear, Elva, but remember my Rider was well-meaning, mistake or not. Safiri's daughter you may have been, but that will not stop me from protecting those I care about in **this **life._

Not intimidated by the she-dragon's threats, Elva glared back, baring flight teeth in draconic defiance. However, after a silent battle of wills, she relented with a sigh. "Note that the knowledge I am about to impart is not a sign of forgiveness, Shadeslayer. You have killed an innocent human infant and trapped a dragon's soul in a cursed human body. These are wrongs you can never undo, and thus sins I shall never let you forget."

This time, it was Eridor who growled impatiently from within Eragon's mind.

Elva didn't hesitate, gazing past Eragon as she addressed only her King and father from another life. "We all sensed you and Safiri's deaths that night. I was but the first to reach your cave, to smell the _traitor's _stink with that one of the Forsworn's abominations. It did not take me long to piece together how deep corruption had spread into our own family." She swallowed nervously. "It was nesting season, aye, but I had no idea if Safiri had even been expecting that year. Not until I... checked and... found the eggs Jarshan had overlooked."

In his anguish over his past mistakes, Eragon never saw Eridor gathering up his will to rebel before it was too late. Shoving Eragon to the side, the older spirit seized control of the body. Powerless, Eragon could only watch as Eridor seized Elva in a paw, glaring down at her with burning blue eyes. Too stunned to react, Saphira looked on like a deer frozen before the hunter.

_The eggs! _Eridor growled, twisting Eragon's snout into a ferocious snarl. _How many!?_

"T-two," the dragon trapped in a girl's body stammered, struggling wildly against his grip.

_What colors!?_

"L-l-light b-blue," Elva choked out, gasping as the dragon only tightened his hold. "P-please, m-my King, I ca-"

Eridor unceremoniously dropped her to the ground where she lay panting for breath. _Trinnean, _h_e_ murmured. _Caradoc. _His fury reignited as the white dragon menacingly stood over the vulnerable girl. _What about the green egg? _he demanded. _What about Mavalis?_

Truly fearful now, Elva quivered beneath him. "There was no green egg, your Majesty, I swear to you! Only the eggs of two blue males! Dornar and I couldn't keep them, nor did I trust any other of the clan with them; not with war on the horizon, not with so many disappearing, not with corruption running so rampant! I took them to the only place I knew was safe, where they could hatch where the time was right, where not even Galbatorix would think to look!"

Throwing back his stolen head, Eridor have a heartbroken cry that made Eragon, despite his situation, pity him. _Mavalis! My son, languishing in the King's treasury! _His furious thoughts vowed murder against his bastard brother and his abomination of a master. Absolutely livid, he snapped down at Elva: _Caradoc, Trinnean; where are they!?_

"Vroengard!" she choked out. "With Prasavitri!"

Snapping open silver wings, Eridor threw himself into the sky, leaving the cursed human that had once been his adopted daughter gasping and crying below. Still in possession of Eragon's body, he shot off into the east, flapping as if death itself were snapping at his tail.

_Eridor! _Saphira was quick to follow, her her tone both furious and fearful. _I understand we're trying to receive your sons, but give Eragon back his body before you destroy the both of you!_

In his manic desperation to reach his children, Eridor might have been blind to his body's flagging condition, but the other two dragons weren't. Numb as he was, Eragon could still feel his muscles shrieking in protest, his wings shaking with the strain. Eridor's very life-force flickered like a candle before the winter wind, threatening to splutter out and plunge both him and Eragon into oblivion.

For a moment that lasted eternity, the King dragon was stubbornly silent, and Eragon dreaded what damage his furious pride would wreak. Finally, Eridor growled, _Promise me you'll fly northeast! To Vroengard! To Prasavitri!_

Eragon promised, quick to seize control when the other entity grudgingly relinquished his hold upon the body. Exhausted, Eridor drifted to the back of their shared mind, built up an impenetrable barrier for his thoughts, and slipped into a deep sleep.

Shaking his head to clear it of exhaustion, Eragon straightened himself out, gliding effortlessly on a thermal as he allowed himself to recover. Saphira rose up to gracefully float by his side, cutting through the air as a fish would water, ready to catch him the moment his wings gave out and plunged him to the earth below.

_Are you alright, little one? _

His self-loathing over unwittingly killing the spirit of a baby girl never would be, and both dragons knew it.

Eragon nodded. _I'll be fine, Saphira. _Not from _that,_ not ever,but his body would recover from the ringer Eridor had put it through.

The sapphire she-dragon snorted skeptically, keeping a watchful eye on him until she was confident he wouldn't plummet the moment she looked away. _Vroengard, _she mused. _Where Brom and my namesake gained a bond like ours._

_The ancient island of the Dragon Riders, _Eragon added, unable to keep from shivering in excitement. _Where Vrael lived, where Oromis and Glaedr trained_... _where Galbatorix was denied a new dragon and the Forsworn were birthed. _His next shiver was far from excited.

_Why Vroengard? _Saphira wondered, suddenly suspicious. _Even if was still considered impenetrable at the time of Eridor's death, Elva didn't trust those eggs with relatives due to the impending war, and the base of the Dragon Riders would surely be part of the battleground. And why would they still even be there? Galbatorix must have scoured Vroengard for every last one of its secrets. Whose to say those two eggs didn't wind up stolen like Mavalis? Or like me and Thorn?_

_Murtagh didn't feel like he was lying when he said there was only one dragon egg left, _Eragon pointed out. _Presumably that would be Mavalis. That still leaves his brothers unaccounted for. If Eridor believes this 'Prasavitri' is still alive, that makes her both long-lived and incredibly powerful. Not many could encounter one of the Forsworn and live to tell the tale. _

Had the guardian of Eridor's eggs once looked after eggs, been a Rider or dragon with such responsibility? Had she only been able to escape with several dragons eggs, leaving Thorn and Saphira to Galbatorix? For Eragon's boundless imagination, the possibilities were endless, especially when Eridor's unconscious, unreadable mind yielded no further information.

_We should avoid such groundless speculation, little one, and not get our hopes up for what might not even be there, _Saphira reprimanded him gently. _Still, that doesn't stop me from thinking there may be an entire clan of wild dragons in hiding out there. __Perhaps that was why Eridor's lie sounded so truthful!_ Humans tell stories of monsters calling the island home, right? Why can't they be dragons? Real, proper wild dragons not reborn as other things?

She and Eragon bickered over the possibilities the rest of the day. For all three of them, the destination couldn't come quick enough.

**The BS Theory: An entirely new section written up to solve the plot-holes of 'Majesty's' origins and human Eragon's absence from the battle when he was supposed to be in camp. Not-so-subtle hints about more wild dragons out there may or may not be BS, but secretly investigating such things gives human Eragon a damn good reason to be so absent lately.**

**Elvana: The name of the original inhabitant of Elva's human body; got totally screwed by Eragon's 'blessing' as she was unable to handle the horrors Elva's mature, cynical soul could. Elva, having to watch a baby wither away like that, has a reason to be such a bitch to Eragon. However, Saphira has a point: Eragon was a boy who was just trying to keep a baby safe from him, and made a tiny mistake in tensing. It happens to me in Latin class all the time. It's just that the consequence here was an agonizing curse, but that doesn't excuse Elva from tormenting Eragon like that over it.**


	16. Act II: Chapter 3: Imprisonment Updated

**5/4 Update: By the end this month, I'll have officially graduated from high school. Hopefully between that time and mid-July, when I leave for a two-week trip to Europe, I'll have finished updates on this fic and moved on to posting actual updates. So... yay?**

**NOTE: Remember that characterizations of several characters have changed considerably between the original and my updated version. If certain someones seem atypically evil in following chapters, it's probably because they haven't been updated yet.**

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _belongs to Chris Paolini. All original material is mine.**

While most of the old human capital of Ilirea had been razed to the ground, Galbatorix had constructed his Fortress around its castle. One of the features that had obviously been preserved was the dragon-hold on the roof, sheltered from the elements but with large open passages to allow dragons easy access to the sky. Originally built for the dragons of Riders that came to meet with the old line of human kings, it had last been used by the Forsworn's mindless excuses for dragons. After the death of Morzan's beast, the hold had lain deserted for years, for Shruikan never strayed far from his Rider's side and the other eggs had yet to hatch.

Now the dragon-hold was in regular use again, one lonely male dragon as its occupant. Thorn had claimed an isolated corner for himself, one with excellent access to the nearby forest Galbatorix maintained exclusively for fresh game. Here Thorn had constructed a haphazard, but comfortable nest of straw and animal furs. Access to such comfortable bedding was one of the precious few luxuries the King allowed, and Thorn reveled in what he could.

He did his best to lie on his side, one wing squashed awkwardly beneath his bulk. Though Murtagh had long healed his most recent burns with magic, his entire damned belly still ached from that bastard white dragon's unnatural blue fire. Those flames had been otherworldly, a feat not even fierce Shruikan could manage nor even Murtagh could cast. Gods, the fire had even permanently changed_ his color! _Before his under-scales had been a brilliant red, like the rest of his body. Now they were forever singed an ugly dark shade of red. The bottoms of his wings (which had also been caught in the blast) were also similarly blackened, ragged in ways not even Galbatorix had yet managed to heal.

Thorn cursed his own cowardice in the face of that white male. He had faced Shruikan numerous times, so how had a dragon barely larger than himself stricken such terror in his heart? Perhaps if he had hesitated for so long he would not have to forever bear the proof of his cowardice.

Murtagh sat some distance away, entirely engrossed in the dagger he was sharpening. For being Rider and dragon, neither Thorn nor his human willingly sought each other's company outside of training sessions and the times Galbatorix forced them to spend together in a futile effort to strengthen their bond. And, as always, Thorn and Murtagh chose to spend those forced bonding sessions on separate sides of the dragon-hold in mutual awkward silence.

Thorn growled impatiently. And to think he could have been hunting right now instead of being forced to muse over his humiliating defeat!

Hearing the irritated grumble, Murtagh's eyes flicked up from his dagger to his dragon. They may not have been as close as Eragon and Saphira, but gods dammit, they shouldn't be so disconnected when they shared such a strong mental link.

He smirked wryly. "Cursing that white dragon again, Thorn?"

_That unnatural white dragon! _Thorn snarled hatefully. _Something was off about him, Murtagh. How else could he paralyze all of those soldiers, **me, **like we were prey? _He snorted twin puffs of smoke into the air. _But what's really pissing me off is Galbatorix's behavior. Making us march straight back into battle after a resounding defeat, not even having us try to capture the she-dragon and her Rider-_

"Eragon," Murtagh interjected warningly with a limited patience Thorn knew never to push. "My _brother's _name is Eragon."

_Fine then, Eragon. First it's just us against his she-dragon, no sign of him, and then that damned white dragon came dropping out of the clouds! And Galbatorix isn't angry at us for failing to actually accomplish anything. He, he wasn't even the tiniest bit curious about what he reported back to him, just the smuggest I've seen him in days, like we were just confirming something he already knew._

Murtagh nodded thoughtfully. Thorn could almost see the thoughts whirring in his head. "Aye, you make a fair point. Besides, have you even _seen _Galbatorix since we've reported the white dragon's existence? Usually he's riding us at every availible opportunity with damned fool's errands, but aside from ordering us to spend time together like he usually does, there's nothing. What could he have holed himself up in his library over?"

The red dragon shrugged helplessly. How was he supposed to know what the Mad King was planning? Not even the best strategists of the ancient Dragon Riders had been able to predict his actions back during the Fall. _He's had a century to torture every last secret out of the Eldunarya and he gave up his search for the true name of the ancient language years ago. _His hackles rose in dread. _Do you suppose this new dragon renewed his interest in resurrecting the dragons through the Eldunarya?_

Galbatorix had once proudly showed off his failed experiments that had tried to restore the Elundarya in his possession to tangible bodies. Thorn still had nightmares about some of them.

His Rider's eyes darkened. "I suppose we can only wait and see, can't we?"

_Just as long as **we **aren't involved with it, _Thorn growled.

* * *

Red orbs hovered in the air, illuminating the chamber below in a vermilion glow. Situated in the heart of the Fortress, there was no opportunity to allow natural daylight in, and not only did candles make notoriously poor light for reading, but their tiny flames and dripping wax could cause damage to precious literature he didn't feel like wasting precious magical energy to repair.

Here, in a drafty section of his personal chambers, was all that survived from the burnt libraries of Ilirea and Doru Araeba. He had personally selected this cache of ancient knowledge before ordering the dangerous and unimportant tomes and parchment destroyed _(burnt, burnt to ash)_. And he, King of Alagaesia, was now the only man fit to gaze upon such a priceless _(to those with lesser minds and memories) _library, loaning out the occasional book of ancient spells to a trusted member of the Black Hand only on a very rare basis.

Of course, his private library didn't only hold ancient _(to them, perhaps) _and forbidden magic the Riders should have destroyed long before he'd conquered them. Some of the most priceless works of his collection were deemed trivial rubbish by the foolish. It was those, the star charts, that Galbatorix poured feverishly through.

Wild dragon lore didn't deserve to be called such, not in the face of elf and human lore. The legends of mankind had started out as truth, embellished over the centuries from misconceptions and misinterpretations until whatever was originally accurate been obscured by myth. Elves were even worse, trying to 'distinguish' truth from their own legends and only further clouding what had been there. Wild dragons were wonderfully literal, sparing none of the boring or gory details. A single of his Elundari was worth more than all of the written elf and human accounts he had ordered razed.

Unlike humans, the wild dragons had no gods or deities, nothing but the souls that abandoned their bodies upon death to fly far higher than any dragon could ascend in life. At night they were visible as the stars, the strength of their souls so radiant they illuminated the night sky. Every dragon, regardless of whatever unspeakable sins they may have committed in life _(but for those unanimously condemned)_, were allowed entrance to the stars once, an instinct for the forgiveness and inclusion of kin that carried on beyond death.

However, be it seconds or centuries after their initial death, every star fell to earth for to be reborn as a living spirit. It was a trial dragons were obligated to endure to either atone for the wrongs of their first life or to prove themselves worthy of ascension a second time. Only a subconscious will to do good or evil in life, a second death separated the dragon soul from the one that had sprung from it. Those who had done good in their new lives were permitted to return to the stars and begin the cycle anew. Those that had done evil again were banished from the skies forever, condemned to suffocate in boiling pits beneath the earth forever _(oh, had it burned)_.

Other races considered the wild dragons' afterlife to be nonsense, the result of a long-lived race too proud to admit that even they one day had to cease to exist. As if worshiping mountains and gods that bickered like children made perfect sense.

The elves that had diligently documented the nighttime skies for centuries refused to allow religion to enter their reasoning, contributing the periodic appearances and disappearances of certain stars over the years to anything _but _a perpetual cycle of life and rebirth. The humans who continued in their wake were little better, either spewing similar nonsense or tripe about wars or fickle wills amongst the gods.

Exasperated with browsing through such trash, Galbatorix had commissioned several astronomers to document the entire visible sky on a nightly basis shortly after the formation of his Empire and continued to do so. Those who saw fit to add their utterly inaccurate star names and constellations to their maps were promptly thrown to Shruikan. Should a star need labeling, Galbatorix handled it himself: _Aisha. Malkith. Fundor. _

There were obvious patterns. Those from the Empire's earliest days showed a massive increase in the number of stars, the dragons that had escaped him. For the next few decades stars rose and fell at fairly regular intervals, the usual rate of souls being rebirthed and returning. Until approximately twenty years ago, that is, where stars had fallen in vast numbers with very few replacing them. The astronomers, with no clear logical explanations for such, continued bickering over their theories.

To Galbatorix _(and something far superior) _the answers were obvious: The dragons were selecting bodies with longevity, anticipating an event so far into the unknown future only the stars could foresee it. He was positive Jarshan, one of his most useful _(and gullible) _of servants, had fallen with the throng.

When Jarshan had fallen during one of the last great battles against rebelling wild dragons, Galbatorix had kept a watchful eye for his spirit amongst the stars. His soul had been pure, not weighed down by the sins of a prior life, and even a dragon that had murdered his brother and King in cold blood had his right to ascension. After all, quite a few wise dragons had acknowledged Jarshan as their rightful king upon Eridor's defeat, those who had no longer wanted to answer to the Riders and their pets.

His black eyes blazing, he slammed a first down on the star chart, cracking the oak table beneath it. If_ only the war had not killed them all!_

A new star had risen the night after Jarshan's death, dim and insignificant against its some of its bigger and brighter brethren, but carrying his essence all the same. During the early days, Galbatorix had tracked the star diligently to see if it would fall. As it hadn't, he presumed Jarshan had wisely decided to wait until a new clutch of eggs was laid so he could be reborn as the proper species.

Galbatorix had completely forgotten the star several years later. The she-dragon's egg had shown no signs of hatching, and the abominations the Forsworn had still insisting on calling dragons had been all rendered barren by the curse Eridor's surviving descendants had inflicted upon them.

But the white dragon from Murtagh's memories had been Eridor _(as if he could ever forget that white rat), _albeit an Eridor returned to life as the stupidly inept Eragon Shadeslayer. Perhaps that was why Jarshan had fallen; regardless of whatever species he had been reborn as, he had foreseen a day where there would magic that could restore him to his true form. Now if only Galbatorix could pinpoint approximately when he had fallen, if only to narrow the search.

Jarshan's star had been too dim to spot on all but the darkest of nights. Thanks to the strained eyes of Galbatorix's astronomers, his star had been last recorded fifteen years ago, nothing that could have been his soul seen in the skies since.

Galbatorix smirked triumphantly. Jarshan would have chosen a species that put him in easy reach of his master, automatically excluding all but Imperial humans and Urgals. Perhaps he would have been attracted by an Urgal's power, but the fact they were looked down upon as savage barbarians would have cheapened their appeal. No, a King dragon's pride would demand only the best possible life, that of the son of a nobleman or a similar position of power. Now all he needed were transcripts keeping track of the surviving noble branches and-

_My Lord? _a mental voice tentatively rang from within, interrupting his thoughts.

Head snapping up from his charts, the Mad King of Alagaesia bared his flat human teeth demonically. Very few people had direct access to his mind; Thorn, Murtagh, and the most important members of the Black Hand. The fact this intruder was Darnell, who had been stationed as a spy amongst the Du Vrangr Gata, only further infuriated him. Him being within range meant he had deliberately disobeyed direct orders.

All of Galbatorix's enraged mind bore down upon the unwelcome intruder. _**WHAT!?**_

Darnell recoiled from his master's burning aggravation, but he had the will to not fully retreat. His suicidal courage was the only thing that kept Galbatorix from immediately ripping his mind and body apart from the inside out.

_I... I bring a boy, my Lord. _As Galbatorix's ire spiked to dangerous levels, he quickly added, _A boy with a dragon's soul._

Galbatorix's rage spluttered out. His curiosity, quick as it appeared, sharpened with suspicion. _Oh?_ he questioned in a perfectly rational tone._ And you came by this how, Darnell?_

_It was the dragon who came to me, Lord, while I slept. I first thought them only nightmares, for my visions were through his perspective, a trapped and tortured mind. Then I became aware of myself in the dream, of how I had been seeing through the dragon's eyes, and was able to directly communicate with him. _His shame flared up again. _Forgive my disobeying orders, my Lord, but the dragon needed me to deliver him to you, and I found this information too sensitive to share in any other way._

Galbatorix momentarily shut Darnell out of his mind, analyzing what he had just heard. Intimately knowing the mind of every last Black Hand, he knew quite well what Darnell had slumbering in his own soul, an asset Galbatorix found far more valuable than the man's information and magical prowess. Had the dragon within been awake enough, had sensed a kindred spirit nearby, it could have tried calling out. Since the dragon within Darnell was very much dormant, it had made contact with him instead.

But what dragon would specifically request to be brought before _Galbatorix_? The abominations of the Forsworn had been mindless beasts upon their deaths with no souls left to reincarnate. The wild _(true) _dragons had become increasingly more pathetic and loyal to the Riders as time had gone on. Very few had the courage or common sense to pledge themselves to Galbatorix's cause, unless...

_Darnell, does this dream dragon have a name?_

The answer was honest, unhesitating: _Jarshan, my Lord._

The King of Alagaesia's jaw dropped. _His host, the boy, how old is he? What is he to the Varden?_

_Thirteen, Lord, and just a Varden page. _Darnell paused thoughtfully. _He used to deliver messages whenever it was required of him, but he seems to have been assigned as the personal messenger of Eragon Shadeslayer and his dragons._

Thirteen; well within the fifteen years Jarshan's dim star had disappeared from the sky. Galbatorix wondered if Jarshan had foreseen his encounter with Darnell, one of the few souls able to help him, and had purposefully been reborn into the Varden to make the meeting come to pass. Obviously, as Jarshan had been the last King dragon, some of his powers had carried over with him into death and into a new life. How else could he have been conscious enough to actively call out to the dragon within Darnell?

_Excellent work, Darnell_._ Today you have done great service to Jarshan, our Empire, and me. _The Black Hand shivered in delight at such rare personal praise. _Take the boy down to the dungeons and tell the guards he is a **special** visitor. They'll know what that means._

_Of course, my King. And my new orders?_

Galbatorix still strongly desired to punish Darnell for his disobedience, great service done or not, if only to crush whatever little seed of arrogance or rebellion that may have taken root in his heart. But Darnell would soon be far more valuable for assets other than those that mattered to the Black Hand. Until that time came, Galbatorix wanted him both utterly trusting and safely in his possession.

_Obviously your time amongst the rebels is finally over, Darnell. My staff shall happily provide you with accommodations in a guest chamber fit for a visiting king. _Not that any of the other two known kings, the Surdan brat and the dwarf, would be so willing to spend any amount of time in his Fortress. _Here you shall receive the rest and rewards you deserve for such service to the Empire._

Galbatorix expected Darnell to make some snivelling sentiment about returning home to his family. Instead, however, his concern went to an unexpected subject. _My Lord, there is no doubt Jarshan must be freed from his hell but... what about the boy?_

The Mad King was unable to keep the eager smirk from spreading across his face, although Darnell sensed only his satisfaction at a job well done. _I shall attend to this matter personally. Rest assured, Jarshan will be freed, and our side will once more have the dragon advantage over the rebels._

And, like the obedient moron he was, Darnell simply accepted an explanation that never really answered his question. It was for the best.

* * *

Jarsha awoke to the stone walls and barred door of a prison cell in... wherever he was. Like the dragon within that frantically raged for freedom, he too was now a prisoner, captured by what must have been an Imperial agent.

At least his surroundings were nicer than he expected, even more luxuriant than the dungeons carved within Farthen Dur. The wooden platform jutting from the wall supported a mattress that looked more comfortable than Jarsha's paper-thin cot he had slept on since being recruited as a Varden page. He had a pail for doing his business, certainly a step up from just soiling his cell without any means to clean it up. Best of all, not only was he unshackled, but there were no chains hanging from the walls. At least he wouldn't be tied up like a mad dog!

Stomach growling, Jarsha scanned the cell for food. Hell, he'd be happy with stale bread and water, even if it did give him constipation.

His mouth watered as soon as he noticed the tray placed close to the door; an entire fresh-baked loaf of bread, a jug of water, and a steaming bowl of brath, all for _him._

Hunger overpowering caution, Jarsha lunged at the tray, falling to his knees as seized the loaf and tore off as large a piece as he could force into his mouth. Who could if it was poisoned? At least he'd die with a full stomach!

Wolfing down the bread, he considered the broth with a clearer mind. Picking up the bowl with both hands, he inhaled appreciatively, studying its contents.

_Some kind of green vegetable, little flecks of herbs floating on top, lumps of- _Jarsha dropped the bowl, scrambling back even as the broth splattered to the stone floor.

Prisoners, regardless of their rank, _never _got meat. It was a luxury consumed only by wealthier people and certainly not wasted on lowly, captive pages.

_But I'm not a prisoner, am I? _Jarsha realized, an icy dread numbing his limbs. _Just the vessel for a dragon that certainly can't be harmed!_

His revelation resonated to the dragon caged in his soul. The beast stirred, its half-formed thoughts not clouded with its usual blind panic and desperation, noticing what dull human senses could not, a presence that lurked just behind the wooden door.

Automatically, Jarsha knelt in a gesture of ultimate submission, baring his exposed neck to the unseen presence. The dragon hailed it as master and savior. Jarsha, not so self-deluded, acknowledged it only as his certain demise.

* * *

The journey down from his private library to the dungeons had been among the longest walks in Galbatorix's life. Even as he tore past bewildered courtiers and servants at an undignified speed, the distance between him and the enigma awaiting him seemed to grow only longer.

Nodding absently to the patrolling guards he passed, Galbatorix came to a dead stop before his destination. The guards, seeing how he ravenously eyed the door like a starving hawk would a mouse, wisely avoided that hallway altogether.

All other cells in the vicinity were vacant, sparing the hallway's sole guest the emotional distress of hearing the insane raving and tortured screams of the dungeon's other occupants. The cell had even come equipped with food and furnishings that made it practically a palace compared to the others. It would do no good for the boy's body to have suffered undue stress or fatigue, after all, not when the risks were running so high.

Galbatorix's earlier experiments had been on weak dragons dormant within even more pathetic human bodies. Jarshan may have already been somewhat concious of his surroundings, and a King dragon to boot, but host was still but a scrawny adolescent far too unused to the true horrors of the world _(his children, pitiful as they were, had at least been ruthlessly reared for such.)_

Like all cell doors in the Fortress's dungeon, not only had the wood and locks been heavily warded against all magic except Galbatorix's own, but had been enchanted to serve as a one-way window. The prisoners would look to their door and see only opaque wood. Galbatorix, so long as activated the enchantment, had an unobstructed view.

Galbatorix had hoped for Jarshan's influence upon his human host to be stronger, to at least be taller or stronger than most boys his age. If anything, Jarsha was below average, a weedy thing unfit for holding even a hatchling's soul. Still, Jarshan sensed himself in the presence of his master, and had enough control and common sense to properly submit himself.

With human vocal cords, the dragon spoke, his voice too deep and powerful for such a feeble form. _"My King."_

Galbatorix's lips twisted into a smirk. In life Jarshan had only sworn allegiance to him to gain an ally against Eridor and the Riders, and while the he had respected Galbatorix as much as a wild dragon could a human, he had balked at so openly submitting to a member of a_(undoubtedly inferior) _race. Rebirth had stripped him of his power, made him desperate for release, and would make him forever indebted to his liberator.

"Perhaps your death was not so inconvenient after all, little hatchling," he murmured to himself.

Galbatorix reached out with his mind. The boy smartly recoiled from is touch while the dragon clung to it as a drowning man would a life-line.

_Soon, _he simply soothed to his servant. _Soon._

He offered solace for only a minute before ripping it away, leaving Jarshan to stew a final night in his human hell. Come tomorrow, when Galbatorix was well-rested and fully prepared for the task at hand, Alagaesia would not have five true dragons, but six _(not that Eridor's half-finished abomination truly counted)._

**Second chances: Dragons, wild dragons especially, are creatures ruled by their proud and impulsive tempers and sheer inability to let go of a grudge. Dragons are wise enough to recognize this. Due to that acknowledgement, and any pity or mercy a dragon spirit may show to a family member or dragon with a similar point of view, virtually all dragon souls are allowed to the stars at least one time. Rebirth is mandatory for all stars, for bad souls to redeem themselves and for the good ones to prove themselves still worthy. Those that fail a second time are forever banished from the stars and sky, cast into the depths of the earth.  
**

**Prisoner conditions: The bread and water diet, while a conveniently inexpensive diet for a jailer to sustain prisoners on, also had the nice side-effect of causing malnutrition and constipation, just to make things all the more pleasant for the prisoner. As Jarsha is carrying very, very valuable cargo, and Galbatorix needs him in good shape, he's not only getting fairly nutritious meals, but hygenic conditions and a good night's sleep to boot. (If necessary, Jarsha will be forced to eat and sleep, if only so Galbatorix gets him at peak condition.)**


	17. Act II: Chapter 4: Liberation Updated

**5/15 Update: _Major _sections of this were revised to take new plots and characterizations into account. Again, if characters seem out of whack in future chapters, they haven't been updated yet. **

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _does not belong to me. All material you don't recognize from it does.**

Jarsha spent his first night in captivity sleeping peacefully and dreamlessly. Perhaps his food had been laced with sedatives or he had been magically sedated. Hell, he could have been so resigned to his fate his body hadn't seen the need to resist, and had just wanted to spend some of its final hours wisely. For the first time in weeks, the dragon his head slept soundly, secure in the knowledge its liberation was finally at hand.

In the morning Jarsha had eaten his breakfast without complaint, savoring the taste of well-cooked porridge, what well could have been his last meal.

Would spending the rest of his days in Galbatorix's personal dungeon truly be so terrible? Here there would be no pitifully small rations, should he behave, not like in a Varden that frequently dealt with food shortages. There would be no constantly running errands, no Irving and nosy Nolfavrell to hide his nightmares from, no constant threat of dying in a surprise attack.

Occasionally, Jarsha mused over how he drastically had become numbed to the prospects of impending death or perpetual imprisonment. Some small part of his mind screamed that his mind had been altered to keep him calm and compliant. Jarsha, while logically acknowledging that fact, felt no need to be upset over it.

When two guards slammed open the door to his cell and hauled him to his feet, Jarsha could not find it in himself to halfheartedly resist. They dragged him into even deeper into the labyrinth of cells and into eerily silent passages that held only the ghosts that had died within them.

It was in this forsaken area Jarsha's journey through the maze ended before a massive door engraved with unintelligible runes. The burlier of the guards tightly held Jarsha while his partner fumbled for the correct key on his rusted ring. The door gave a protesting creak as the key was forced into its slot, and it took both guards shoving their weights against it to force it open wide enough to enter.

The spluttering lantern they carried was not bright enough to fully illuminate the wide, high-ceilinged room, but Jarsha's eyes, having grown used to the darkness, still plainly saw the scratches gouged within the walls and floors, the dark stains mottling the gray stone. His nose, accustomed to the dank odor of the dungeon, overloaded at the stench of rotting flesh. The contents of his stomach hit the floor as Jarsha heaved, adding yet another layer of misery to his latest hell.

The smaller of the guards glanced over at the vomit, making it vanish with a single word muttered under his breath. "Best I can do," he said apologetically as he helped his companion tie Jarsha to the wall. "'Fraid the rest of this stench might as well have seeped into the stone by now."

"How about just putting me into another cell?" Jarsha groused. "One where fewer people died?"

The smaller guard winced, avoiding eye contact as the cell fell into grave silence. When the guards were done, the smaller one hesitated before placing down his lantern and hurrying after his partner. Although the door slammed shut with a resounding _thud, _Jarsha had at least not been abandoned in total darkness.

The large room had a gods-awful draft, one that made Jarsha shiver pathetically in his thin breaches and threadbare tunic. His wrists ached, the manacles holdings his hands so high his feet barely scraped the ground. At least his bindings were rope instead of biting cold metal. Rope-burn was a far lesser evil than the horrible infections rusted cuffs could supposedly commune.

_Maybe I'm too small for the normal sized ones, _Jarsha wondered. He glanced thoughtfully down at the gouge-marks. _Or they want to make sure the dragon has an easy time eating me when he gets out._

The dragon stirred for the first time in hours at the mention of its name, its excitement so strong Jarsha's head vibrated with its force.

Absently, Jarsha wondered how hungry it would be upon gaining its freedom.

* * *

_(the first of many and they would all rise rise rise and he'd be their king and all else would burn BURN **BU**-)_

Galbatorix's smooth, controlled strides faltered only once when he beat his bestial enthusiasm back into submission, shoving it into a deep, dark corner of his mind. Those he passed in the halls already avoided him more warily than usual, sensing the anticipation that paced restlessly within him. First and foremost, he was King Galbatorix, master not only of Alagaesia, but of his own mind _(as if he could claim such a-)_

"ENOUGH!"

Two guards cowered in their armor as he passed them by, instinctively raising their weapons.

Galbatorix cleared his throat, locking his bottomless black gaze upon his spineless inferiors. "Well?" he demanded. "Look me in the eyes, men, and tell me what frightens you so!"

The men snapped back into a respectful stance, although their eyes looked anywhere but his face. Such avoidance of his eyes was not out of respect, but the deep, primal fear that kept their ancestors from facing certain death in the futile hope it would likewise forget about them.

Although they technically disobeyed orders, Galbatorix relaxed, an easy smile spreading across his mundane features. To these mortals he was an invincible god, permanent as the four peaks of Helgrind, as the forces of nature that trampled over their pitiful lives and structures. They were right to fear him so.

Sweeping dismissively past them, he descended into dungeons now occupied by a sole prisoner. The others had either been disposed of or transferred elsewhere. All guards and other workers assigned to the lower levels had been dismissed for the day. Thorn and Murtagh were confined to the dragon-hold and the floor above it under the guise of 'strengthening' their bond. With floors of magically-warded stone between him, his experiment, and the closest trained magician, Galbatorix had as much privacy as he was ever going to get in his Fortress.

Such extreme precautions hadn't been taken with prior experiments, but never before had conditions been so optimal, and never would they be again. Come hell or high water, Galbatorix _would _succeed this time, and the secret to reliably resurrecting a nearly-extinct race would be his alone.

Having passed all potential witnesses, he abandoned all pretense of control, and ran to his prisoner as if chased by death itself. He stopped just before the door containing his saving grace, panting from the exertion and grinning manically.

He reached out pensively with his mind, reading the boy's emotions and his detachment from them in satisfaction.

_Since you've been so compliant, boy, I'll let you spend your final moments with a clear head._

Galbatorix released the brat from his spell, plunging him ruthlessly into his desperate, all-consuming terror. He let them have their reunion before finally entering.

The boy stopped his frantic thrashing as he beheld the King of Alagaesia, still as a mouse before the hawk. The rope had worn away the skin of his wrists, leaving them raw and bleeding.

For a moment, the strength of Jarshan's desperation allowed him to seize control, flinging the weight of the boy's bodies against his shackles in a vain attempt to reach his master. Though still firmly contained within the boy's body and mind, his soul continuing banging against its bars, fiery rage trying to burn whatever cracks of freedom it could.

The boy was not overwhelmed with such smoldering need for freedom. His brown eyes evenly met Galbatorix's own, and were not blind to the beast lurking in their fathomless depths.

The boy opened his mouth to scream, but it died in his throat as Galbatorix clamped an iron hand over his mouth. Still, his eyes never left the burning black holes that bore into his soul, stubbornly blinking back tears.

"Congratulations," Galbatorix drawled. "That makes you one of the bravest souls to enter this chamber. A pity you aren't the type to be immortalized in song and story."

The Black King placed his other hand on his clammy forehead. The defiant little brat fell slack at his touch, falling into a stupor. Jarshan's anticipation refused to be doused, but that did not stop him from being firmly shoved back into the opposite corner of their shared mind. Swift as night, Galbatorix entered their mind-space and went to make the divide permanent.

Pushing his way through decades of resentment, determination, self-loathing and fear, Galbatorix honed in something even more innate than the churning maelstrom of emotion.

The human's soul was dull and utterly unremarkable; no different than the countless others Galbatorix had stripped bare. Its faint glimmerings of potential would never be given the opportunity to harden into a diamond among the rough. Beneath the human soul was its origin, the dormant dragon that had sprung a new consciousness during its years of slumber.

All other dragon souls Galbatorix had encountered before this one had been as dark and dormant as winter soil, refusing to awaken, no matter how insistent his summon _(he could not make them burn for that, but their cages were deliciously flammable_.) If it wasn't his _infuriating _temper damaging the experiments, it was the inability of the stubborn dragon soul to resist his demands without making their host suffered. Inevitably, their minds would split in two, slipping away to where not even a King could reach.

Jarshan was not only aware of himself and begging to listen to orders, but boiled under the human's placid spirit like magma beneath the earth.

Galbatorix gave a smile that could have been considered pleasant on any other man. "Ah. _Here _we are."

He supposed it could have been considered a similar to a living dragon's Eldunari; a tiny, insignificant little thing nestled deep within a far greater being. A metaphorical egg that cradled the dragon's slumbering spirit until death made it hatch and ascend back to the stars _(or sink down, down, do-)_.

If it was an egg, then Jarshan was the infant unable to hatch itself, and screaming for its father.

For a moment, Galbatorix considered leaving him there. A hatchling unable to enter the world had no part in it, not when far stronger siblings would eventually come along to fill its empty space.

But he hadn't any more loyal dragon servants still owing him allegiance from beyond the grave, now did he?

Shaking himself, Galbatorix proceeded, his mind encircling the dragon soul and temporarily cutting off the brat's polluting presence. The boy's physical body jerked violently at such a violent assault on its soul, rope bindings holding it firm. With his servant so willing, all he had to do was allow him the opportunity to earn his own freedom.

_And if I have to intervene? Well, it's another subject to dissect, and another period of watching and waiting for the right soul. Perhaps Jarshan will be smart enough to choose rebirth somewhere nearby next time, a creature without such a stubbornly independent sense of self!_

Galbatorix opened his mind fully, baring his full power to Jarshan's imprisoned soul. Dying may have sent souls to intangible planes the living could never hope to walk, but so long as they remained true to themselves, not even bodily death could purge an individual of their magical obligations. The King had every intention of calling upon every last oath.

_Once you swore allegiance to me, Jarshan, Son of Vanilor and Ocurni. _His words rang in the unearthly might of the ancient language, amplified a thousandfold by the conquered Eldunarya bound to his soul. Jarshan instinctively shuddered at the employ of such raw power, but did not shy away, drawn in like a moth to the flame. _So long as the shadow of the Dragon Riders hangs over Alagaesia, then you will come when called, serve as my faithful comrade, until we can be free to rule only over but our own people. _

The inviting warmth of Galbatorix's power intensified to an inferno's punishing blaze. _You died with your vows, your very dreams of the wild dragons truly being free, unfulfilled. Vrael's ghost still haunts these lands. Return to me, Jarshan Stonescale, to your rightful place over the wild dragons, to take your vengeance upon the one who denied you your rightful inheritance! So I call and so you shall come!_

Galbatorix's final words were lost in an earth-trembling roar. Jarshan's prison shattered, releasing its inferno, a phoenix to be gloriously reborn from the ashes of the old.

* * *

_Jarsha watched as fire engulfed him in fascination, the same way one would a wildfire from the safety of a distant mountain. His mortal terror had already been burned away, so at least he could appreciate the devastation in all of its glory. Really, it was beautiful, in its own relentless, all-consuming way._

_He wished there could have been one last stand for the fate of their shared body and soul. Sure, he knew he'd been damned against a freaking dragon, but it would have soothed his ego knowing he'd gone down fighting. A battle between boy and beast for the sake of their very being? That had to be worthy of a tavern song or two, right?  
_

_For the first time in thirteen years, Jarshan soared high and proud, only ever larger as the flames consumed all that had held him back. He was a majestic sight to behold, even as a herald of oblivion._

_Deep down, Jarsha knew this would have happened eventually, after he had lived his mortal life to the fullest. Really, he was a messenger boy in a rapidly escalating war. How many more years could he have possibly had left before death had freed him from living constraints? When Jarshan could have ascended to the heavens in a blaze of glory to a rank he had truly earned? For them, a human and dragon so drastically different, regardless of their shared origin, seperation had not been a question of if, but of when._

_But he couldn't feel angry now, not when the flames had burned all ill will away. So Jarsha smiled and basked in the melting heat as if it were a warm summer day. There wouldn't be any more summers anyway._

_His watering eyes caught a darkness behind Jarshan's blazing form, a shadow not from the smoke. Squinting, he could just make out the silhouette of a behemoth that dwarfed even a decades-old dragon. Jarshan did not tremble in fear or stand in awe of the overwhelming abomination, but frowned in mild concern. _

_Perhaps he should have warned Jarshan about tha-_

* * *

Galbatorix jolted out of the trance he had unwittingly slipped into, dusting off his robes as he rose from the ground and stepped back as far as he could. Shaking the confusing jumble of sights from his mind's eye, he trained his piercing gaze to the limp body hanging lifelessly from the ropes. He reflexively muttered protective wards as he braced for the storm that always came after the calm._  
_

The boy's snapped open with a grunt. Before the King's very eyes they lightened from a warm brown to a gray cold as stone, their round pupils narrowing into thin slits. Like ripples in a pond, the changes continued on after another, growing in intensity.

Dull, blunt fingernails lightened to bone-white, curving and sharpening into lethal points. They clenched, tearing through the rope and gouging into the delicate skin, only furthering the bleeding from the shredded wrists. Pinkish skin paled to a corpse's pallor. Brown hair fell to litter the floor like pine needles. The boy resembled a writhing corpse more than a dragon, but the transformation only elevated.

The pallid skin darkened to slate-gray, hardening and spiking up in diamond patterns, healing the old wounds and shielded from new ones. The body swelled and contorted in size, the ropes finally giving way to the strain and sending it tumbling to the floor on its hands and knees. Muscles ripped their way out of a scrawny frame, straining bones not yet strengthened to accommodate then. The boy could bear the agony in silence no longer, ripping harmlessly at his new scale hide as he screamed bloody murder.

His back legs painfully shifted as his spine snapped into a position suited for four legs instead of two. His body continued to grow in size, from the size of a horse, to that of a cow, and beyond. A tail erupted from the base of his spine, thrashing against the stone wall as it lengthened. His neck grew long and serpentine, sending the head far above its shoulders. The remnants of the tunic and breeches had long since been shredded, leaving a body that looked almost fully draconic. His thumbs and pinkie toes, migrating to his palm and ankle to better grip mountain crags and prey. His massive hands and feet then fully shifted into paws, the remaining four digits on each thickening and lengthening to support them fully.

Two white bones erupted from his shoulder-blades with the most blood-chilling scream and convulsion yet, growing to nearly brush the ceiling and sides of the chamber. Smaller and more delicate bones branched out, creating a structure for muscles and sinew to wind themselves around. A translucent gray membrane, some shades lighter than the main body color, finally sled over the exposed networks.

The head was among the last to be changed. Voice deepening from agonized screams to bone-jarring roars, his mouth and nose exploded outward to form a long snout. Within, the blunt teeth of an herbivore sharpened into bone-white fangs, the incisors long enough to jut out of the mouth even when closed. His tongue thinned and lengthened into a rough tool perfect for licking scales clean and the precious last bits of meat from bone.

The little things followed, neatly tying up the transformation from boy into dragon. The first spike emerged from the top of his head, the rest following one after another in a trail down his spine to the end of his tail. At the tail-tip they grew closer together into a threatening club. Three small pairs of spikes wreathed the face. Finally, two white stubs emerged from his head, lengthening into impressive horns that curved slightly backwards. A slightly smaller pair emerged behind it, followed by a third and final set of even smaller spikes, forming the rudimentary crown all close relatives of a King dragon sported.

Most remarkably of all, the newly-created flesh marred itself, the numerous scars Jarshan had prided in life carried over into his reborn form.

Transformation complete, Jarshan flopped down onto his stomach, panting heavily.

Several moments later, his bleary eyes focused on his restored form, sharpening. He stumbled uneasily onto his four paws with the clumsiness of a foal, unused to the sheer bulk he now carried. Shifting his tail experimentally, he did his best to balance himself without whacking the wall. His neck craned as he surveyed his form, making sure every last scar and scale was accounted for. After several failed attempts to furl his wings, he left them hanging limply.

Hesitantly, the dragon rumbled in the back of his throat, the sound escalating to a floor-shaking bellow as the triumph sank in. At last, Jarshan remembered his master, dipping into as grateful a bow his quivering limbs could manage. Galbatorix cynically wondered when the dragon's pride would exert itself and make him think himself his master's evil _(he was so eager to reteach him the natural order!)_

_You saved me from an eternity of torment, my master. _Not even weariness could weigh down the joy in Jarshan's voice. _I am forever in your debt._

_(And don't you ever forget it.)_ Galbatorix only nodded absently through the seemingly endless drivel of gratitude, one of the rarest gifts a dragon ever gave.

"Would you care to have the honors, Jarshan, of snuffing out the last traces of your host?" He nodded casually to shedded hair and shredded clothing still littering the floor.

The stone-gray dragon backed away several steps, face contorting into a hateful snarl. In his past life, his fire had blazed stormy-gray; unusually hot for a dragon of his relatively young age, but not uncommon for a royal dragon. The plume of flame that now streamed from his maw was wispy gray around the ages, but its core burned white-hot like a star. Galbatorix registered its heat from even behind his protective wards.

Perhaps such direct exposure to the might of the Eldunarya had strengthened Jarshan's natural magics or he still carried a piece of the untold power of the stars within him. Perhaps rebirth had allowed him to finally claim the Kingly powers that had been rightfully his at Eridor's death. Galbatorix's black eyes glittered at the possibilities, of how this miracle could further his success with less powerful or less willing subjects.

Jarshan flexed a front leg akwardly, clenching its claws as if still expecting fingers. His master frowned in displeasure. Obviously the dragon's full capabilities needed time to return or be completely relearned. It would do no good for the paragon of his experiments to be introduced to the public as a blundering liability.

"There is still a dragon-hold on the top level of the Fortress," Galbatorix said pointedly. "Shruikan roosts elsewhere. You are welcome to rest there until independently enough to choose otherwise."

Jarshan snorted at the insulting implications. During the early days of the war, when forced to be with one or more of the Forsworn for over a day, he had eaten and slept apart from them and the mindless beasts they had once called their dragons. Shruikan was no better to him, a hopeless and withered soul sulking inside his Elundari.

_My host saw the red dragon during both the Battle of the Burning Plains and in the later skirmish where my big brother decided to make a brief return to the land of the living. Will I be roosting alone, master, or have to play nice with the Rider and his pet?_

"They are your brothers-in-arms now, Jarshan," Galbatorix warned, a dangerous flicker of irritation smoldering behind his otherwise relaxed facade. "The dragon is Thorn, hatched from one of the two eggs retrieved from Vroengard. His Rider is Murtagh, Morzan's son." He smiled pleasantly at Jarshan's agitated rumble. "Would you have rathered explaining to your sole surviving nephew how you slew his parents?"

Jarshan dimly recalled the green egg Kialandi had pried from his mother's arms. When his full Kingly powers had not manifested even weeks after Eridor's death, and no other dragon having ascended to the position, Jarshan had wondered if such magic had come to reside in his unborn nephew. As such power had never before fallen to an egg before, much less one enchanted to hatch for a Rider, Jarshan had dismissed the possibility and had largely forgotten about it.

Until Galbatorix had so generously dredged the matter up, of co-

Jarshan closed his eyes for a good minute, purging all distractions from his mind. Everything else could wait until after a long, long rest.

The gray dragon eyed the wooden door dubiously, recalling the narrow passages beyond. _How do I even **get **__to the dragon-hold, master?_

Galbatorix parted the ceiling with a casual wave of his hand, letting the direct sunlight stream in. Jarshan shut his eyes with an agonized hiss as the brightness seared them.

"I had this chamber constructed beneath one of the courtyards for this very reason," he explained simply. "So glad someone finally survived long enough to make good use of it."

**Jarsha/n: The original version of this chapter (the one with the very hammy and evil Jarshan) had Galbatorix only loosening Jarshan's bonds enough for him and Jarsha to literally battle for their soul. Jarshan wound up viciously exterminating every last trace of Jarsha bit by bit. As he's no longer that heartlessly ruthless, but very, very desperate for freedom, I changed the scene to Galbatorix using the Eldunarya to purge away Jarsha for him and fully restore his old body. **

**Which character to feel sorry for? Jarshan may have chosen to be reborn, but was forcibly awakened to a point where he was prisoner in a stranger's body. How can would he have been if it took another fifty years for his host to die of old age? Jarsha was only thirteen and had every right to live his life to the fullest without a tortured prisoner in his head. He's also smarter than he looks, at least when it comes to Galbatorix.**

**On an unrelated note, I was _this _close to changing Jarshan's name when I first started posting revisions. Then I realized how annoying it would be getting reviews going 'who's this guy' or 'you keep mispelling Jarsha's name and thinking he's a dragon.' Plus, stupid though that name may be in hindsight, it's stuck on me XD. (If anyone's wondering what he likely would have been renamed as, Nirnasha is Sanskrit for 'deathless' and sounds close enough to Jarsha to keep the naming scheme for reborn dragons I had in mind.)  
**


	18. Act II: Chapter 5: Vroengard Updated

**5/26 Edit: Just your typical clean-up of grammar and sentence structure and what-not. Keep in mind that this story only recognizes _Eragon _and _Eldest _as cannon, as it predates certain topics from both _Bris__ingr _and _Inheritance _for me to even bother squeezing them in. So, no whining about the lack of magic radiation and giant snails, please.**

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _belongs to Chris Paolini. All original material you don't recognize as his belongs to me.**

With a swift wind at their backs, the journey from the Burning Plains to northwest Alagaesia was not as long as expected. The two dragons soared higher than human eyes could identify, coasting upon a current that carried them far faster than mere flapping ever had.

Such a long flight couldn't have been completed without rest, especially since his fight with Eridor had already greatly exhausted Eragon. Around twilight Saphira had guided him to the shelter of a small copse of trees. They awoke at the crack of dawn, refreshed themselves on fresh spring water and lean deer meat, and were in the air before the sun could clear the horizon.

Eridor slumbered so deeply that Eragon frequently checked to make sure he hadn't permanently slipped into oblivion, not waking once during the entire flight. It was probably for the best. The two living dragons were stressed enough as it was, and certainly didn't need a voice constantly urging them to pick up the pace, no matter the physical expense to their bodies.

Eragon angled his wings, gradually descending to a lower level of the sky. They had passed over the last human settlement hour and ancestral memory assured him it was a clear shot to the coast. Unless a village had sprouted up over the last century in the middle of nowhere, neither dragon ran the risk of being spotted.

Below, the rugged peaks of the Spine had gradually smoothed into foothills, growing ever flatter as the dragons had flown further west. Eragon's nostrils flared at the scent the breeze carried with it. He smelled salt, not like that of treated meat, but the tang of tears, strong enough to make his eyes water.

Saphira rumbled in surprise as the unexpected scent assaulted her nose for the first time, blinking her eyes rapidly to clear the irritation from them. _We have to be close by now!_

Mere minutes later, she and her companion glimpsed the sea, or at least the wide channel that separated Vroengard from the mainland. It engulfed Eragon's entire vision, a void of dark blue that swallowed the brown and green landscapes, along with the very horizon.

For the first time since he had nearly fatally exhausted himself, Eridor stirred at the verges of his host's mind. Eragon was only relieved his voice was free of its earlier madness.

_The people of the Empire call the waters around Vroengard the Raging Sea. What ships don't have their hulls gouged by submerged rocks encounter terrible storms that bombard Vroengard year-round. The meager profit made from fishing these waters in my time was not worth the loss of life. I doubt that's changed in the past century._

_Then why not take a longer route around Vroengard and bypass this 'Raging Sea' altogether? _Saphira pointed out reasonably. _Even if the Riders cast protective wards, they could only extend outward for so long._

_Vroengard is naturally deadly, which is perhaps why the Riders found it so appealing to place their capital, a city with defenses no army, save for one on wing, could breach. The storms blow in from the western waters, where there is no land to soften their wrath. Why do you think even the elves, hiding away in their forests while lamenting for the sea and their silver ships, sail back to their ancestral homelands?_

Eragon growled down at the sea distrustfully. _Is natural phenomena all we have to worry about?_

Eridor paused thoughtfully. _Stay high above the water. They prefer gorging themselves in early autumn in rich coastal waters than having to hunt down every scrap of food in the winter months. You two are large enough to satisfy a young adult for the entire season, and still a tempting snack for an elder._

He raised his barriers, refusing to say anything more about the matter. Saphira heeded his warning, flying as high as she comfortably could. Eragon joined her, burning blue eyes never leaving the waves. When would a giant dorsal fin break the water's surface? When would he spot an island-sized shadow lurking in the depths? Was such a monster already watching them, waiting for the perfect time to snatch a dragon for its meal?

_Come on, Eragon, _Saphira murmured, gently shaking him from his paranoia. _The sooner we're over dry land, the better._

The white dragon nodded in furious agreement, flying as close to her as he could without their wing-tips brushing. Even though he stubbornly concentrated on the clouds rather than the water, he still couldn't shake the feeling something watched him from below._  
_

* * *

Eragon had personally seen the jewel-encrusted halls of Farthen Dur and the massive Star Sapphire that had previously shown over it like a star. He had been to the emerald, enchanted forest of Du Weldenvarden and had touched its guardian, the titanic Menoa Tree. He had visited catacombs carved from solid rock and cities sung from living trees.

Vroengard did not need dwarven or elven intervention to embellish its natural majesty; the very island itself roughly resembled a five-fingered human hand. Sunlight glinted off the massive lake in the island's center, turning it as silver as a _gedwey ignasia_. No wonder the Riders had chosen to establish themselves here on an island seemingly intended just for them!

Now flying over land, Saphira led the descent, ancestral memories guiding her and Eragon to Doru Araeba. Although thick, emerald foliage largely ensnared the island, the odd ruin of a tower or statue jutted out from the forest canopy. Eridor pointed out what structures he recognized, along with the open crags wild dragons had roosted on when visiting. Eragon listened intently, trying to ignore the scorch-marks and signs of purposeful damage the forest had not yet obscured.

_Most chose to reside in Doru Araeba itself, or at least had some form of residence there, _Eridor explained. _Though some, like certain elves, preferred living in isolation from their peers to meditate over such mysteries like why the sky is blue and not green._

Both living dragons flinched at the vitriol that had seeped into his voice. _Care to elaborate? _Saphira dared to venture.

There was a long silence as Eridor metaphorically exhaled, his emotions becoming carefully neutral. _For centuries, since practically its inception, the Dragon Riders did not know of true conflict. How could they, when just a small number of them obliterated that human king's forces? When their elders could bring even the most skilled of the elven magicians to their knees? When they could devote decades of their time to building things like... _He sent them a memory of a breath-taking crystal spire. _They generally meant well, aye, but how could scholars living out their days in Alagaesia's most prosperous cities understand the struggles of the peoples they tried to oversee? In hindsight, their fall was almost inevitable._

Eridor sent them a far more recent image of the crystal spire they had just flew over, its shattered base just peaking above the tree-line. One of its fragments still impaled the remnants of a massive dragon rib-cage.

Eragon frowned, able to sense the secrets the spirit was trying to conceal. _You had to deal with the Council frequently as King of the wild dragons, right? How were relationships between your people and the Riders? _

_Wild dragons had no time for the petty politics of the so-called 'civilized' races. We had no reasons to fawn over the Riders in exchange for additional privileges or protection. They already kept humans from excessively encroaching upon our ancestral territories and the more antagonistic dwarf clans from instigating us. Our standing agreements with the Council had been enough from the beginning. Most of the Order thought the same. _

Old resentment simmered beneath his words. _Still there were those, Rider and dragon alike, that thought us **savage **for what we were, feared us for how little we truly relied upon them. They were the ones that pressed for more limitations upon our hunting grounds, the very ways we had organized clan hierarchies and chosen worthy mates for countless generations. _The resentment gradually flared up into full-fledged fury, a force beginning to burn the edges of Eragon's very mind. _Then some little upstart believed we owed the Riders a mandatory quota of eggs each nesting season, as if MY CHILDREN WERE-_

Just when his rage seemed enough to incinerate Eragon, it subsided, reigned harshly in its by owner. _Never mind that, now. We're here._

Eragon and Saphira now circled over a crater in the island, one that dipped down to the silver-shining lake. Carved into its sides, extending to just feet above the water's surface, were tiers of buildings so intricately-styled Eragon wondered if the buildings had been crafted in the same way elves had sung Ellesmera out of the trees.

His throat dry as the Hadarac from the salt in the air caking his throat, the white dragon eagerly swooped down for a drink.

_Careful, stone-head! _Saphira reproached. _That water's salty._

Eragon flared his wings, stopping his descent as he hovered above the crater. His nostrils twitched at the pungent tang of salt drifting up from the deceptively refreshing lake.

_How is that even possible? _he grumbled. _We're inland!_

_Vroengard was once a volcano, a great mountain that spewed fire from its maw as easily as we can, _Eridor replied, voice almost too calm. _Its molten rock carved out tunnels. When the volcano blew itself empty and collapsed into itself, the tunnels opened to the ocean, allowing water to flow all the way into this lake, the volcano's former heart. If you want to reach Prasavitri without drowning, it's got to be through the lake entrance.  
_

Eragon eyed the water distrustfully, unable to tell how far its depths extended. _She lives **in **Vroengard? _

_All, save the Council and a select group let in to the secret, didn't even know the tunnels existed. It was for the best._

Saphira exchanged a perturbed glance with her companion. _...Do we even want to know?_

_You've got no choice now. Blow your fire over the surface of the lake. It's considered the courteous way of requesting admittance... and also a sign for them not to eat you._

The two dragons exchanged suspicious glances, but complied, unleashing twin plumes of fire over the water. The flames, one stream a sapphire-hearted yellow and the other a blazing blue, skittered across the lake's mirror-like surface, leaving puffs of steam in their wake.

Dead silence reigned as the last sparks spluttered out. Then Eragon's sharp eyes detected the slightest ripple in the water, the hint of a sinuous shadow lurking in the depths.

Suddenly, like an ocean swell, a foreign mind flooded into his head, having flowed over his defenses like a wave over the shore. From her Saphira had tensed with a furious snarl, she too had been invaded. Though the mind was presently calm, Eragon sensed its agreeable mood could change in a heart-beat, unpredictable as the sea.

_I was but a youngling when the last dragon who came searching for us arrived, _a feminine voice mused pensively, frostily. _Tell us, fire-breathers, why we should not drown you too._

Before the two living dragons could dart for the safety of land, Eridor's presence blazed furiously, driving back the icy chill of the invader's touch. _Impudent hatchling, y__ou speak to the last King of the wild dragons! Your Mother would be all too happy to punish you for your insolence, but I fear my companions would not leave enough left of you behind for that. Rest assured, you'd find any one of us a far more formidable opponent than the abominations the Forsworn called dragons._

Very tangible fear and chastisement lanced through the intruder's thoughts, melting whatever ice remained. _Then allow a daughter of the sea a lifetime of shame for her brashness, Majesty, over the undeserving mercy of a quick death._

Instint told Eragon both Eridor and the voice were only going through the motions, a careful display of melodramatic posturing and submission to set very clear boundaries for two normally antagonistic parties that normally would have been at the other's throat.

_Then I shall allow it._ The required formalities completed, Eridor simply introduced by his full title.

_I am Saphira Brightscales, daughter of Vervada. _She hesitated, as if wondering whether to add on more information, before ultimately deciding against it.

_And I am Eragon, Son of Garrow. _Nothing he said was a lie. His uncle had raised him from infancy, had taught him right and wrong, how to fend for himself in the ruthless wilds of the Spine; certainly more than Morzan had ever done for him. (Besides, the voice had admitted to drowning the dragon of a Forsworn, and Eragon absolutely didn't want to be considered guilty by association.) Deliberately omitting the little fact he had killed a Shade seemed a nicer alternative to the convoluted back-story of how a human Dragon Rider had become a dragon with a pompous voice in his head.

_I am Thalassa, daughter of the sea. Mother told me the last King of the dragons died decades before my hatching. _She paused, torn between skepticism and awe. _Are you truly..._

_The son of King Vanilor and Queen Ocurni, brother to siblings long dead, mate to a she-dragon now dead, father to children mostly dead, last legitimate King of the wild dragons? _Eridor rang off wearily. _Aye, and I am very, very eager for an audience with your Mother._

_Who am I to deny Mother an audience with a King and his host? _Her suspicions suddenly sharpened, a sharp undercurrent to her otherwise respectful tone. _And the she-dragon, is she your-_

_No! _Eragon and Saphira blurted out simultaneously.

_Then she is to remain outside! _Thalassa roared, mind now churning like a stormy sea. _No **unworthy** fire-breather shall be-_

Saphira rumbled warningly, swooping as low to the lake's surface as she could, creating waves with each wing-beat. _Then tell me how, you water-lurking bitch!_

Eragon discretely did his best to rise up as far above the blast zone as possible. Even Eridor seemed to agree with his course of action.

Thalassa paused. _Traditionally those seeking admittance would have to prove themselves in a duel to the death._

_A **modified **duel to the death, _Eridor butted in hastily. _An opponent must be held in a position or have sustained injuries that could have been lethal if the intent of the battle was truly to kill. You would have to fight on your own, Saphira, as would Thalassa, until one of you can be considered a victor. Should you win, you will get to join Eragon and me in meeting Prasavitri. Should you lose, you'll be eternally banished from Vroengard and the surrounding seas, on pain of death should you ever dare to return._

_Very well, _Saphira sniffed.

Knowing the she-dragon's mind was steadfastly made up, Eragon flew up to one of the larger buildings that overlooked the lake. Despite the roof creaking ominously under his weight, it held, allowing him a clear view of the impending duel.

And of the massive, slimy creature that emerged to meet Saphira in battle.

* * *

Her infernal pride having spoken for her, Saphira now had no _clue _what she was about to face. The numerous myths and rumors of the strange creatures that supposedly inhabited Vroengard had always been incredibly vague on the actual descriptions, considering no one after the Fall had seen one up close and lived to tell the tale. She had hoped these mysterious creatures to be dragons that had survived the massacre, hiding out in the place Galbatorix would least expect them.

Although, considering Vroengard was an _island, _she really should have considered something aquatic.

Well, there was no backing down now, as if she was ever going to allow Eragon into caverns crawling with Thalassa's kind with only Eridor and his unpredictable powers for protection!

_Come on, _she muttered, scanning the water's surface for the slightest ripple. _Where are you, coward?_

The lake's mirror-like surface shattered in a shower of water droplets. Something _very _large lunged up to her, snapping with dagger-like fangs. Saphira thrust herself upward with a mighty beat of her wings, the thing's jaws just missing clamping down on her tail.

Leering up at her was a serpentine head attached to a long, sinuous neck. Dark blue like the deep ocean and slimy as a toad, Thalassa would have appeared a monstrous snake, were it not for the dark frill that ran down her head and neck. Two webbed ears perched on the sides on her head, along with dark horns that curled like a ram's.

With a jolt, Saphira recognized this creature as a sea serpent, the same monsters that had terrorized coastal towns and villages during the earliest days of the Dragon Riders. Even the mightiest of battle ships, the most powerful of _flying _and _fire-breath__ing _dragons, had fallen prey to such ambitious jaws. Only the potent magic of the Riders, backed by the strength of their dragons, had been enough the sea serpents away from shore and into the deep ocean where no ship ever sailed.

Thalassa shrieked a challenge up to her, her cry shrill enough to shatter glass. Baring yellowed fangs, the sea serpent wove her head back and forth almost hypnotically, her brilliant green eyes never leaving Saphira.

_Too afraid to play, little dragon?_

Saphira barely restrained herself from diving down to meet Thalassa. She recalled her history lessons with Glaedr, who had described in excruciating detail how sinister sea serpents had taunted proud dragons into range of their quick, strangling coils. Once ensnared, the dragon would be almost powerless, its chest bound until it suffocated or drowned breathing in seawater.

_Strangle this, water worm!_

Saphira loosed the hottest flame she could muster, certainly hot enough to roast the sea serpent's side.

Rather than trying to dodge the fire, Thalassa exhaled a volley of ice shards. Fire and ice collided mid-air, evaporating as harmless steam.

_Please, _the serpent sneered. _Whether you drown or freeze, it matters not. Your fire is nothing against the ocean's might!_

She tilted back her head for another shot. From where her green eyes were fixating, Saphira knew Thalassa was meaning to shred her wings and take away her advantage of flight.

Saphira inhaled a breath not to be wasted on flame before she tucked in her wings, plummeting like a stone. Thalassa's ice bounced harmlessly against her armored side before they collided, the force propelling both titans down into the lake. Saphira barely heard Eragon's shocked roar before the water drowned him out.

Thalassa's muscular coils tried to twist around her kicking limbs. Grabbing the sea serpent's thrashing form, Saphira battered her down deeper into the water with her back-paws, relying on her powerful tail and fore-paws to propel her upward. Her wings next to useless in the dense water, she kept them folded tightly to her sides, as safe from Thalassa as she could.

With as much distance between them as she was ever going to get, Saphira finally exhaled all the air left in her lungs. It was not a controlled jet of flame, but a burst of boiling steam that radiated out in all directions. Scalded, the sea serpent recoiled in pain, her dark blue belly now a blistering red. Saphira, while she too somewhat felt the blast, was protected by thick scales and a natural tolerance for extreme heat. Thalassa, a creature of the cold dark, had no such defenses.

Boiling in her own domain, Thalassa rocketed for the surface, desperate for cool air to soothe her scalded flesh. In her blind rush, she had forgotten Saphira floated in wait above her.

Seizing one horn tightly in her jaws, Saphira hauled Thalassa the rest of the way out the water, snapping her wings open to maintain a low hover. She wrapped both of her front paws around the sea serpent's thrashing neck, prepared to either snap it or strangle her should her coils even break the surface.

Trembling, Thalassa tensed for an agonizing moment, searching for a way out. Finally, her sinuous form relaxed, the shriek that had been building up in her throat released only a hiss of defeat.

_I yield, she-dragon. _Her voice, though reeking of bitterness, held no treachery. _You have won the right to see Mother._

Releasing her captive from her death-grip, Saphira ascended to meet Eragon. The white dragon eagerly nuzzled her as if to assure himself she was not a ghost. Guiltily, the she-dragon allowed him to fret.

_As if he needed anymore nightmares about me, _she thought privately.

Thalassa watched the exchange with unreadable green eyes. Motioning for them to follow, she gracefully sank back beneath the water. Saphira nodded confidently at Eragon's wary growl, following the sea serpent. After a long moment of hesitation, the white dragon followed, Doru Araeba's lake again becoming deceptively calm as the ripples in his wake stilled.

* * *

Despite his strength, Jarshan found his newly-restored wings dead-weight against his sides, barely able to keep themselves folded against his back. For now, flight was absolutely of the question.

Seething in frustration and humiliation, Jarshan clawed his way up from the courtyard to the dragon-hold, leaving deep gouges in the stone behind him. He rested where he could, where the roof jutted out enough to support his weight, before forcing himself onward.

Initially, servants and noblemen alike had gathered in the courtyard to gape and gossip over the unknown dragon scaling the walls of their King's Fortress. When he had craned his head back to roar at them, sending the only pitiful wisp of flame he could manage, only a few had scattered. Guards impotently waved their swords up at him, them and their fellow magicians flabbergasted when spells and arrows only bounced harmlessly against his sides.

Galbatorix had beheaded the unfortunate messenger who had come to warn him about the 'dangerous dragon', throwing his body to Shruikan while he had personally seen to those harassing his 'honored guest, King Jarshan of the wild dragons.' After that announcement, no one had been suicidal enough to remain in the courtyard. As if that stopped them from curiously peering out the windows at Jarshan's descent.

When his wings had failed them and the hallways up to the dragon-hold had proved too small for him to squeeze through, Jarshan had been relieved to discover the walls of the Fortress were worn and pitted enough for him to scale. There was no way he would remain vulnerable down in the courtyard for every pitiful human servant to sneer over! At least the dragon-hold offered relative privacy from their stares.

After what seemed like lifetimes, Jarshan hauled himself up into the dragon-hold, hungrily gasping for breath. When he had recovered enough, he forced himself to gaze upon his _temporary _accommodations.

Jarshan had been hoping for a place on verge of collapsing from decades of neglect. Even that would have beat sleeping in anything that resembled the _stables _Vanilor had forced his young hatchlings to sleep in whenever he had forced his family to travel with him.

Instead, he faced a dragon-hold that looked all too similar to the one he had last occupied a century before. Elegant carvings of dragons and their simpering Riders, though somewhat faded by the elements, remained all too legible on the walls, barely scratched by the few dragons that had called the Fortress home since the Fall. Jarshan's nose wrinkled at the scents of all-too-human cooking wafting up from the kitchens below. He all but gagged on the still insulting stench of lovers that had made the dragon-hold their secret hideaway between the death of the last Forsworn dragon and Thorn's hatching.

Curious in a bored sort of way, Jarshan explored his temporary resting place. Dragon scents from the mindless puppets of the Forsworn still clung to the remnants of their nests. Bones from kills Aiedail knew how old still rotted in corners. (Servants obviously could not have been persuaded to clean out the dragon-hold, not when those mindless abominations had lurked up there. From the looks of things, Jarshan seriously doubted they had become thorough cleaners since Thorn had taking up residence.)

Every pile of refuse he spotted received a spark, just enough to make it go up in smoke. Small piles of ashes everywhere, which would soon blow away regardless, beat living in filth.

Snarling in disgust, Jarshan stopped dead at the biggest pile of trash yet. The crude nest, from the fresh scents clinging to it, was obviously Thorn's.

_Wild_ dragons did not usually resort to such petty comforts. Easily flammable nests had no place in the caves of those who sneezed fire or who were rearing spark-happy younglings. Save for cushioning eggs or the aching joints of elders, what use were such soft things for dragons perfectly comfortable on solid rock?

Such common sense obviously didn't apply to the Riders' pets, who yearned for constant comfort. It wasn't as if they kept their children to raise, or else them and their nest would have been consumed in minutes once they had discovered their flames.

Finding the ideal spot, as far out of the elements and away from his unwelcome room-mate as physically possible, Jarshan went to work gouging a shallow depression out of the floor with his claws and flame, creating the perfect, fire-proof nest to curl up into.

Then, following in the leads of the countless elders who had come before him, Jarshan marked the entire dragon-hold as his own, drowning out the scents of all prior occupants, the Rider's pet included. Were this a normal conquest, and Thorn a normal wild dragon, Jarshan would have never allowed him back in the dragon-hold, having claimed the territory for his own whims. But this was _Galbatorix's _turf, and Jarshan wanted no reason for Thorn and his Rider to go crying to their master... not yet, anyway, and so Thorn would remain a grudgingly tolerated guest.

Satisfied his dominance in these surroundings had been clearly established, Jarshan curled up for a long, dreamless slumber, fully prepared to maul the unfortunate bastard who woke him up early.

**1. Vroengard: When I was first writing this story, I looked at the map of Vroengard and noticed both the island's really strange shape and how the dot for Doru Araeba seemed to be situated within a crater. In Earth's history, there have been massive volcanoes that have blown their tops, leaving crater lakes behind (Lake Toba from the Toba eruption, Heaven Lake from an eruption of Baekdu Mountain, Lake Pinatubo from the Mount Pinatubo eruption, ect.) Then I thought: wouldn't it have been cool for Doru Araeba to have been constructed along the shores of that crater lake? The tunnels were previously magma chambers that got flooded by the ocean when the ancient volcano blew its top, allowing seawater to directly flow into the lake.**

**2. Sea serpents: So, of all the three intelligent reptile-based races in the IC (sea serpents, dragons, Fenghur), only the dragons are smart enough for civilized contact? The sea serpents where too violent, even when "the Riders tried negotiating with them?" Um, what? Just one of the many things that let me down with _Inheritance. _Here, the sea serpents are very fierce toward outsiders, yes, but still civil enough to deal with them on some level. The Riders wouldn't have let them stay in Vroengard unless they were sure they would only eat the _right _people, after all ;).**

**3. Riders and their ivory towers: Okay, you have an Order of immortal, highly magical warrior scholars and their dragons... and they largely live in their own cities and towers, far away from the petty troubles of the mortal dwarves and humans they all outlive anyway. And away from wild, 'unenlightened' dragons not bonded to an elf or human. You now expect that Order to govern over those peoples in some way without being effectively able to relate to those they're governing over, and making laws that, while making perfect sense to an immortal Rider, might not make so much sense to the average human. _This is how wars start, people!_**


	19. Act II: Chapter 6: Prasavitri

**My apologies for having so late an update. Schoolwork kept from completing this chapter sooner (stupid Honors classes...) as well as a writer's block of sorts. Don't worry, I'm back and will be making more frequent updates now.**

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _does not belong to me. However, all material you do not recognize from the books, including original characters such as Jarshan and Prasavitri, belongs to me. **

When Eragon had been human, he could barely hold his breath for just a minute before becoming starved for air. Now with his large lungs it seemed as if he would never have to inhale or exhale again, though he knew this feeling of invincibility was just temporary. While before his eyes had been clouded by the water, his sharp sight allowed him a perfect view of everything. Had he not had wings, living an aquatic lifestyle would have appealed greatly to him.

Thalassa lead the way deeper under the lake, swimming along like a snake would have slithered on land. Her lithe body was perfect for this underwater world and her scales allowed her to blend in with her dark blueish surroundings. Were it not for his sharp eyes and how he was focusing on her, Eragon was sure she would have easily vanished because of her superb camouflage.

Saphira swam just behind Thalassa. Though her serpentine neck and powerful tail could have easily allowed her to mimic the sea serpent's undulating motions, the she-dragon kept to a more traditional way to movement. Wings pressed closed to her sides she paddled the water, moving as if she were padding about on solid ground. Eragon imitated her, forcing his body to move along properly instead of trying to swim in a human way like it still desperately wanted to do.

In a situation like this Eridor would have normally given him constant advice, guiding his every movement and figuratively riding his back like Brom had once down about his swordplay. Now the entity inside his mind was silent, concentrating solely on Thalassa. Eridor did his best to conceal his emotions, but Eragon could easily sense the impatience and anxiousness that gnawed away at him. He could tell the former King of the wild dragons wanted only to charge past the sea serpent and run about through the tunnels until he discovered Prasavitri and reclaimed his sons.

_Patience, Eridor. _A part of Eragon's mind could scarely believe he was addressing his past life with so calm and wise a voice, but he continued on nonetheless. _Trinnean and Caradoc were fine for over a hundred years, even after going through so much chaos. Both of your sons still be there when we arrive._

The other dragon spat angrily, his increasing nerves bringing up irritation and snappish tendencies. _You try becoming a father and see if you feel the same nonchalant way about being united with your children again after a century! _Though Eridor was restless, he did not attempt to usurp Eragon again for control over his body. He had learnt a lesson during that encounter with Elva and did not desire to be unconscious when he recovered his eggs.

_Look ahead, dragons, _Thalassa spoke up calmly. _For there is the entrance to the tunnels under Vroengard. There is where you shall find Mother._

Concentrating on the spot that the sea serpent had gestured toward, Eragon could barely see a dark spot yawning out from the rock. Concealed behind a thick covering of plant-life, no dragon during the time of the Shur'tugal would have ever discovered it. Their human and elf partners could not travel this deep, nor did any self-respecting dragon have any sensible reason to swim so deep in a lake filled only with small fish and forests of aquatic plants. They would have never noticed the entrance, it was virtually invisible behind those plants and would have remained unnoticed unless you were specifically searching for it.

Thalassa entered the hole first. Dark and foreboding as it was, Saphira hesitated at the threshold for the briefest of moments before following the cobalt sea serpent. Daring not to show the same reluctance for fear of agitating Eridor into another frenzy, Eragon swam in as well.

There was beginning to be a small strain on his lungs from the absence of fresh oxygen, and his cramped surroundings with no direct path to the surface and freedom were beginning to worry him. Saphira's serene mind gave no window into her inner thoughts, but Eragon knew her well enough to realize she was growing uneasy too. Subtle signs were obvious to him. The she-dragon's wings were fluttering softly, as if longing to unfurl and burst through the rock to the surface and air above. She was glancing more at the walls about her than at Thalassa, the claustrophobia a dragon feels when sealed away from the open sky for too long beginning to emerge.

Finally glimpsing a small beacon of bluish green light ahead, Saphira swam faster, butting into Thalassa in an effort to make her hurry up. Despite the strange color of the light, Eragon did not hesitate to hasten his pace as well. Eridor's restlessness was bleeding over into his emotions, making his calmness simmer away to growing agitation.

Breaking the surface at last, Eragon opened his mouth and greedily inhaled fresh air. Though dank, it was far better than keeping that stale air instead his lungs for so long. Saphira refrained from such desperate behaviour, merely letting out a silent sigh of relief. She nodded briskly to Thalassa, who was watching the affair with bemusement. The sea serpent slithered along, leading the two dragons as they padded cautiously after her.

_Thank the gods that is over, _Saphira said to him. Her mind was connected solely to his, their conversation a private one so that Thalassa would not hear. _Something inside tells me that staying among these water worms for too long is not good. They are water and we are fire, two polar opposite elements crammed in an already limited environment. I can not take her for much longer._

Eragon nodded slightly in agreement. _Aye, Saphira. Let us get Eridor's children and return to the land of blue skies and light. Sea serpents may like this dark and dank world, but I prefer something not underwater, thank you very much._

The eerie atmosphere of the tunnels did not help their discomfort. Bluish green moss grew from the ceilings, the origin of the unnatural illumination. Water and slime from Thalassa's body covered the smooth floor, making it too easy to slip and fall. The two dragons clung to the floor with their claws, both unwilling to humiliate themselves in front of this unnerving serpent. Around them they could hear the desolate dripping of water and the low rumble of the tide as it roared through some other part of the tunnel system.

Of from the tunnels stemmed smaller chambers and niches that sea serpents had settled. From their nests they watched them, unnerving green eyes watching the two winged stranges curiously as they passed by. One would occasionally slither by them, but most seemed wary to even near Eragon or Saphira, much less approach them. Instead they observed from a safe distance, the light brush of their countless minds against Eragon's feeling as if covered in cool ocean spray.

Saphira looked about her, pertrubed. _Eragon? _she said to him. _Do you notice anything odd about these water worms? How their little ones seem to have no parents?_

The white dragon looked about him, noticing the oddity for the first time. Preoccupied with Eridor's anxiety and warily eyeing the daunting shapes of massive sea serpents far larger than Thalassa that looked as if they could devour him in one lazy swallow, Eragon realized that Saphira's observation was truth. Young sea serpents were visible, the smallest among them not even reaching up to his knee. They clustered about with serpents their own age, no adults that could possibly considered parents close enough to them. Unless they were all orphans, which was highly unlikely, all of these giant snakelike creatures had been independent since a very young age.

Perhaps that was the case, Eragon thought to himself. Though Thalassa had referred to Prasavitri as 'Mother' she had called herself a daughter of the sea instead of a daughter of Prasavitri. Maybe 'Mother' was a just title of respect or high rank, such as how some priests were called 'Father' by followers. Judging by the tender age at which these unsupervised sea serpents were, they were self-reliant from perhaps the time of their hatching, as dragons could be if there were no parents or a Rider around to raise them.

As Thalassa and her guests progressed ever deeper into the tunnels, it seemed as if everything became more ancient. There were no children and the sea serpents they now encountered took up the entire passage, and they were forced to shelter in a niche until the great one passed. The strange moss that provided just enough illumination to see by had grown in numbers, the blue-green light they emanated as bright as sunlight. Ice clung to the corners, delicate coats of white sheathing the dark blue rock. The roar of the ocean had subsided entirely, though the very air seemed to reverberate with some ancient power.

White scales covered in water droplets and feeling chilled to the bone, Eragon's apprehension grew, and the first seeds of misery had been planted. Since his transformation he had been a creature of fire, one that had revelled in the extreme heat and dryness. Dampness now seemed as if it pervaded past his scales and deep into himself where his inner flames burned, quieting them to the coldest of embers. He did not know how much of this blue and dank domain he could take before his fire became doused entirely.

Saphira was not faring any better. Her tail was limp, her wings and head drooping. Blue eyes tired, it seemed as if it took all her energy just to plod steadily along. The she-dragon leaned partly against him and he against her, their makeshift supports just as likely to go toppling as themselves.

While the dragons faded, Thalassa relished the familiar atmosphere. Her neck frill and her ears perked, her green eyes becoming more alert. She began to slither faster as if eager to reach their destination, the distance between her and her charges beginning to grow as they ventured ever deeper into this cold and watery hell.

Eridor though, did not flicker and fade as his companions did. He was as strong and persistent as before, impervious to the weakening effects of the water and ice elements. He once again lowered his barriers enough for mental speech, connecting his mind to Eragon and Saphira and lending them some of his seemingly inexhaustible strength.

_Do not dare stop, _he murmured to them, his voice quiet but firm with the unshakable sureness and confidence of a King dragon. _The ancient magics that exists within these tunnels are beyond even the sea serpents themselves to control, though they thrive in it and arguably are the source of it. Though we are welcome guests among them, they can not help you if you allow yourselves to be conquered and your fire and lives doused by this water magic. Keep your goal in mind and do not allow yourself to stray from it._

Concentrating, Eragon turned his thoughts focus inward. He labored past the chill that numbed his mind, drawing on the fires that smoldered deep within to supply his energy with precious warmth. He and Saphira fully opened their minds to the other, sharing their heat and helping the other stave off the coldness that slowly gripped at their hearts.

They were here for Eridor's eggs. For Trinnean. For Caradoc. A grieving father counted on them to retrieve the sons he had unwillingly left behind when he had passed into the void. Now his chances for a reunion depended on their effort. They were in the serpents' lair for Prasavitri. The guardian of the dragon's eggs. To claim what she had been watching over for the past century.

Lost within himself, Eragon subconsciously released twin puffs of indigo flame from his nostrils. The lively blue light of his flames pressed the icy haze back, filling the passage with a warm light that radiated intense heat. Thalassa, caught by surprise from the sudden bright burst, hissed. She flinched back into the cool shadows while the two dragons leaned toward the flames, like flowers reaching toward a sun after countless overcast days.

_Please, dragons, _Thalassa began politely, an undertone of exasperation in her voice, _keep your fire-spitting to a minimum while in these caverns. Not only does it singe our sensitive scales to the point of scarring, but you run the risk of igniting the highly flammable glow-moss and killing us all in a suffocating and volatile fiery blaze._

Contrite, Eragon inclined his head in apology and agreement. Though he hated the unbearable cold of Vroengard's tunnels, he did not mean to harm or offend the sea serpents in anyway. They were neutral creatures that meant him no harm. Considering how much he and Saphira were intolerant of the damp and freezing conditions, the white dragon was positive the sea serpents also did not like these unwelcome intruders and their stifling heat in their ancestral home. Dragons and sea serpents were beasts of opposite and incompatiable elements and it was best for both parties if they collected the eggs and left as soon as possible.

_We meant no offense, _Eridor replied apologetically. There was still the anxiety to his voice, the desperation of a father to reach his lost children that grew stronger with each hesitating moment between that long-anticipated reunion. Aye, it was best to meet Prasavitri before either serpent or dragon did something they would come to regret.

* * *

Prasavitri's chamber lay not too far ahead. Here the nests that lay in adjacent areas were home to individuals almost as large as Glaedr, their blue scales covered in algae and barnacles that had amassed there over the centuries. Concealed behind a thick curtain of the luminescent glow-moss, two massive and intimidating elder sea serpents guarded the entrance to Prasavitri's personal chamber.

Catching sight of the two stranger guardians, the guards hissed warningly, their green eyes glittering suspiciously. They reared up like snakes prepared to strike, the temperature dropping as they readied their ice breaths like their land counterparts would venom. Tensing, Saphira settled into a battle stance and readied herself. Eragon remained beside her, eyeing the two sea serpents with challenging blue eyes.

Thalassa calmly slithered between the two groups, ending all hostility when she calmly addressed the guards. Giving the dragons a final glance, the other sea serpents moved away from the glow-moss curtain, allowing access to the chamber beyond.

Thalassa left them there, their guide promising she would meet them again on their way back to the surface. Eragon did not linger at the entrance, both the sharp gaze of the guards and the impatient Eridor pacing about his mind more than enough for him to enter. His sapphire-scaled companion was not far behind, her blue eyes gazing silently upon the awesome sight before them.

Prasavitri was by far the largest sea serpent they had ever seen, larger than even Glaedr by a few good dozen feet. Her dark blue scales were coating in algae, barnacles protecting her under-scales as a living and effective armor. A wreathe of driftwood that strongly resembled a human King's crown was situated around her curled ram's horns. But Eragon did not need this symbol of authority to know this serpent had power. Her proud bearing to her regal gaze emanated wisdom and superiority. Had Prasavitri been human, she would have surely been a Queen.

Prasavitri coiled around a large mound, her lithe body defending the eggs that were positioned within. Her head lay on top of the flat peak of the mound of eggs, serenely gazing down at the two young dragons that gaped up at her.

Eragon shuddered when the elder sea serpent's mind connected to his. If the ocean was sentient, its consciousness would feel like this. Deep and unpredictable, Prasavitri's rumbling yet feminine voice was benevolent at the moment but could turn against them as easily as the waves against a sailing ship. By the mere touch of her mind he could feel centuries of experiences and memories of a being almost as old as its race, that of a creature far older than he had ever encountered before.

_So, _Prasavitri murmured, _the whispers of my ancestors on the waves were right. King Eridor and Queen Safiri Bluefire truly do walk among the living once more. One sleeps peacefully within her host, yet another is awake and hungry to reclaim what is rightfully his. _She fixed one great emerald eye curiously on Eragon, pausing for a moment to invesitgate him. _You are the King's new life and hence welcome in this sacred of all chambers. As is Safiri's reincarnation, as she beat one of my warriors in a fair battle and thus proved herself worthy of the sea serpents' secrets once again. Tell me, hatchlings, do you know who I am?_

_Thalassa called you 'Mother,' but she also called herself a daughter of the ocean, _Saphira answered mildly. _Little serpent hatchlings slither about with no apparent guardian or parent to watch over them. Yet you coil around enough eggs to found your race all over again. The only definitive things I know about you is that Eridor considers you an ally and that the she-dragon Elva left two dragon's eggs in your care until someone came to recover them. Tell me, Prasavitri, **who** are you?_

The great sea serpent let out a raspy chuckle, sounding like waves washing over rocks. _Not jumping to conclusions and demanding information in return instead of acting upon presumptions. Thalassa was right, you are a cunning she-dragon that can outsmart even a sea serpent, Saphira Fireheart._

Recoiling in surprise, Saphira's eyes widened, startled. _Fireheart? _she echoed.

_Aye. Those few daring serpents that ventured close to shore have heard of you, little she-dragon. They say you are the last true female of your kind, destined to mother the new generation of dragons or else spell their eternal doom. Elves call you Bjartskular and humans call you Brightscales. We sea serpents shall name you Fireheart, for whatever flame burns strong within your heart was strong enough to resist the foolproof deceptions of a sea serpent._

Prasavitri shifted, positioned more of her body to shield the eggs she hid beneath her. Her large consciousness blotted all of their little minds out, drowning whatever dragon hatchlings that may have lay in that clutch into silence. She began to speak again, her voice tender.

_Sea serpents were not made to be parents. Often for months on end we swim out to the deepest depths of the ocean to catch enough fish to sustain ourselves. Young ones could never survive such a strenuous journey, yet the waters of Vroengard can only yield to much nourishment. From my hatching the Great One has said to the elders I was destined to become the next Mother of my race. While female serpents may bear their own clutches, they always entrust their children to me to protect and nurture. When the eggs hatch the hatchling within only needs a few days to become independent. My guards and I watch over them during that early time, telling them through memory all they need to know to survive and what destiny the Great One has laid out for them. Rarely do I leave my position. Guards catch and bring me all the fish I need. The ocean always flows within my heart, as do the words and wishes of the ancestors. So long as I am the caretaker of the future and leader of my kind I do not need the fleeting pleasures that other sea serpents need. There is too much to worry over without longing for petty things I sacrificed when I took up this honored position._

_You are like the Queen of these serpents, _Saphira said. When Prasavitri nodded in response, the she-dragon could not help but add, _To me it seems like an empty life. Destined only to lead from afar and sit upon dormant eggs all day, such a fate would drive me mad._

Mother's green eyes shimmered knowingly, their wise glint reminding Eragon too much of Angela for his own liking. _The spirits of those that have come before me swim beyond the endless abyss which none can hope to cross without dying themselves. I hear their voices in my head, offering guidance and companionship far beyond your imagination, Fireheart. They whisper the wishes of the Great One to me, share secrets I can never hope to pass on. A leader for the sea serpents and a link between the living and dead was required after the death of the previous Mother. There is much responsibility and self-sacrifice involved and many would not follow in my footsteps. But it is a duty that must be carried out, for the good of my entire race._

Burning blue eyes widening in realization, Eragon gaped at the elder sea serpent but remained quiet, now in deep rumination. Saphira had long since told him of his remarkable display of power at the latest confrontation against his enemies at the Burning Plains, how he entered the feared state known as the King's Wrath and had controlled abilities that befitted an enraged god more than a mere dragon. Such a sign meant he would one day become the next King of the wild dragons, officially succeeding Eridor.

Since this revelation Eragon had been in denile, shoving the thoughts to the back of his mind. As a Dragon Rider he was required to inspire the rebels and be the first to charge into battle, galvanizing the soldiers and boosting their morale to increase their fighting spirit. Never had he actually been expected to seriously _lead _anything. All of the powerful people had known of his back story. How he was essentially a mere farmer that had the great honor of having an egg hatch for him. To them (and secretly to himself) he was only a country bumpkin with a dragon whose sole purpose was to be the embodiment of all the rebellion stood for and encourage more men to join the ranks.

Now he had been chosen as the ruler of a proud kind that would one day rely on his wisdom and guidance to help solve problems and maintain order. True, his only real subject right now was Saphira, but if the Varden won the war than new wild dragons were obviously bound to turn up eventually. Eragon would be forced to decide for them and keep that delicate balance. Lives would be improved or ruined based on his actions. Regardless of his former humanity or his helplessness in the matter, the wild dragons would see him as their ruler, their superior. Their King.

Prasavitri bore similiar duties, though hers were far more restricting. Eragon was not bound to a gloomy chamber for the rest of his days, forced to sit upon the eggs of his entire race. (And he only had one nagging voice of a dead spirit in his mind, thank the gods.) She endured such trials daily, and for far longer than him.

If the sea serpent could stand such a fate for the benefit of her people, sacrificing her life to improve theirs for the better, then surely he could make the same selfless decision as well? Even if it meant dealing with the great guilt and regret that would come with each wrong decision he made.

Impatient Eridor, tired of the self-reflection and character development of his host, interrupted his musing brusquely. _Thank you for the elaborate refresher of your many duties, Prasavitri, but where are my children? _His voice cracked on the last word and his consciousness briefly reared up inside of Eragon, his restlessness growing.

Slowly but surely, Prasavitri unwrapped herself from her stranglehold on the eggs. Coil and coil of muscle and dark blue scales fell away to reveal the impressive pyramid of dark gray eggshells underneath. Eragon intently observed the stack. Not even his sharp eye could discern any trace of a dragon's egg from the wall of rocky shells and the slime and algae that covered them.

Then Prasavitri knocked the eggs down from their perches. They hit the ground in large crashes, sounding far more like solid rocks then hollow vessels that contained maturing infants. Nudging a few aside, she revealed light blue shells underneath. Smooth as fine polished stones and the perfect combination of pure white and sapphire, these two eggs stood out in sharp contrast against their darker and drabber fellows.

Daring to hope, Eragon reached out to inspect these oddly colored objects. What he found confirmed his best hopes and made himself involuntarily cry out in joy.

While the minds of the sea serpents all felt cool and unpredictable like the deepest depths of the ocean, the minds of these unborn creatures felt far more familiar and welcome to his touch then Thalassa or Prasavitri. Though both were dormant inside their shells, they carried the unmistakable streak of pride of a wild dragon. Fire smoldered just beneath their slumbering thoughts, ready to erupt into a full fledged inferno when the infant dragons inside finally awakened and hatched.

_Caradoc_. The name escaped from all three dragons simultaneously, the triumph and sheer joy they felt contagious to the others. _Trinnean._

While both dragons were still locked within their indefinite slumbers, they stirred faintly at the touch of two familiar and comforting minds they had not felt and had longed for since that terrible night. As if glad to feel the fires of his own kind brush against his mind, Caradoc reached out, a little ember against the blazing flames of the elder dragons. Trinnean instead brushed up against Saphira like a cat, recognizing a consciousness he identified as a she-dragon that was and was not his mother. Despite their apparent confusion, the two brothers immediately warmed up to all three entities, though they only sensed two bodies close to their eggs.

Leaving his paws free for walking and swimming, Eragon gently took Caradoc's egg into his mouth. He moved slowly, careful so as not to crush the shell between his mighty jaws. Saphira did the same with Trinnean (who was more fond of her than Eragon), saying that it was best for the safety of all when Eridor protested.

Nodding to Prasavitri in respect and indescribable gratitude, the party of dragons left the chamber and headed for the exit. Thalassa joined them at the glow-moss curtain, leading the way back through the labyrinth of caves and tunnels back to the surface. Driven on by Eridor, Eragon hurried for the want of being able to both become properly united and acquantied with the eggs. Saphira was the same way, the slight influence from the dormant Safiri now more pressing as she too desired some sort of reunion with her offspring. Even Caradoc and Trinnean were eager to leave this world of water and ice, craving to feel the warm sun shining on their shells after a century long deprivation.

* * *

Despite her relatively young age, Angela had a tendency to nod off when even she least expected it. She was more like an old crone than a woman barely past girlhood, prone to napping at the most unlikely times and becoming 'eccentric' to such an extreme point that a few saw this as insanity or very early senility. While most would have hidden away from the world in shame for this embarrassing quirks, she reveled in her individuality, embracing every odd corner of herself. Like right now.

_One moment she had been sitting in her tent, having an 'avid disscussion' with Solembum on the actual usefulness of her current quest to prove that toads were truly frogs. (Considering that Angela was threatening the werecat with permanent fur-loss it was actually more of an argument, but that damned shape-shifter deserved every word after those uncalled for comments he had made.) The next she was in the middle of a rugged mountain range, not carrying her usual weapons but thankfully miles away from Solembum._

_The herbalist was quite familiar with odd teleportations such as these. As a young girl her mind had been frequently sucked out of her boring village and transported to a location she now identified as near the peaks of the Beor Mountains. Her body had always been left behind, meaning one minute Angela would be insulting a group of bullies and the next be unresponsive on the floor. The local healers had been perplexed by the young girl's 'mysterious fainting spells' but they had never pressed upon the matter. Despite her frequent bouts of unconsciousness Angela had suffered no visible damage from it and everyone in her family had simply grown used to her fading in and out of her world. Angela had never been frightened by it. She had been experiencing such transportations since as early as she could remember, making such trips common and normal to her._

_Here she would always meet her contact, her oldest and closest friend that knew her far better than her own family. Angela was glad for these conservations, as they were not only vastly educational but a chance to stimulate the eccentric part of herself that she rarely revealed to her human peers. _

_However, these spiritual visits had occurred only in her childhood, their frequency and length gradually waning as she grew older. By the time Angela had reached adolescence, her encounters with her closest friend had completely ceased. But the herbalist had been left with a gift more precious tham most could appreciate: Not only was the young woman knowledgeable in ancient magics long forgotten, but she was entrusted with a power that left her as one of the most influential beings on the mortal plane. But not even such a power could have helped her foresee this unexpected foray into the deepest confines of her inner mind._

_Without further hesitation, Angela calmly collected herself and began the remainder of the hike up to the peak of the mountain. Although she was already so high above the ground that low-flying clouds drifted by beneath her, something inside told her she still had a ways to go. Remembering the glorious days of her youth, Angela retraced the familiar path and ascended ever closer to the heavens. She had visited this mountain many times before, and knew her contact would always be waiting for her at the very top._

_Though in reality such a hike would have taken quite a while, not to mention tax the herbalist of her energy, she completed the journey in a third of the time it would have ordinarily taken her. Here in this strange realm she was unrestricted by the limits of her corporeal form. Exhaustion and resistance had no place in this world, nor the cruel winds that usually blew at such an altitude. Come to think of it, Angela would have been long dead from lack of oxygen had she been this far up in reality. No one could have survived the biting chill and the empty air except the most enduring of dragons._

_"Damn it, woman," she scolded herself, slapping her own face in admonishment. "Remember what the green lizard always told you. Everything you see before you is only an illusion. How a fragile human mind tries to process something beyond its comprehension. None of this; the mountain, the sky, the clouds, are real. This is only how I perceive this world to be, not its true self."_

_Taking the last few steps, Angela reached the zenith. She looked about her, taking in the familiar sights. No plants could grow this high, leaving only a bare rock devoid even of snow. Clouds drifted lazily below her, their backs fluffy and white as wool. Despite the fact that it was only mid-morning, stars were just visible in the cerulean sky. They were just dull glimmers of light against the sun's dominating radiance, but they nevertheless shone through the thin atmosphere. Up here they appeared so close, and Angela was once again confronted with the desire to reach up and pluck a star right out of the sky._

_Pushing a flyaway wisp of curly brown hair out of her face, the witch-slash-herbalist scanned the skies, watching out for any sign of her friend. Knowing her, Angela would not have to wait for too long._

_Her hunch proved right. Hardly a moment after this thought, a strange phenomenon occurred above. A dragon suddenly materialized out of thin air, diving down from the blue void to gracefully alight mere feet from Angela. However, a sharp eye could have easily noticed that the dragon had not merely descended from nothing. Before her arrival, a plume of stars had come shooting toward earth, combining and manifesting as the creature that now stood on the mountain peak._

_The dragon was a brilliant green, like those of the newborn spring leaves. Though large and at least half a century old, its slender build and delicate movements suggested it to be female. Her light gray horns were unusually twisted, resembling antlers more than horns. The she-dragon's eyes were far darker than her light shade of green. In fact, they were the exact shade of emerald that Angela's own irises had just flashed._

_Smiling wanly, the young human woman raised a hand in mock greeting. "Well, well, Anea, you finally decided to visit me again. And here I was thinking that you were supposed to be sleeping for the rest of my lifetime." Her eyes, hazel once again, glinted curiously. "At least, that's what you told me at our last encounter."_

_Anea flexed her wings and shifted about like a cat after a long nap, not even trying to stifle the enormous yawn and the gust of meaty-smelling heat that escaped her maw. When she finally spoke, she did not use her mind to articulate her thoughts as all dragons do. Instead she spoke verbally, as any normal human would have. "I was supposed to be sleeping," was her blunt reply. "However, something was nagging at me that left me unable to rest. Considering I would like to spend the next sixty years in a dreamless slumber instead of being disturbed by nightmares and my own exasperation conscience, I have contacted you to show this matter to you myself."_

_The answer completely unexpected, Angela stood agape for a moment in shock. However, the herbalist quickly regained her composure. "Gods," she murmured, "what can be so direly important that you must personally show me? My own powers of foresight and prediction may pale in comparison to that of yourself and your line's, but certainly my own meager sight is strong enough to see this great event."_

_Anea rolled her eyes. "Do not purposely belittle yourself, Angela. Not when you only do so in efforts to make me teach you more. I taught you all I could, all a human apprentice could possibly comprehend. Aiedail, I even showed you where my body rested, so that you may take my knuckle-bones in order to amplify your gift of sight. I have not come to mentor this time, but to show. You will be able to understand on your own. Just let me reveal to you what you must see."_

_Without further preamble, the green she-dragon knelt down and extended a foreleg, the invitation clear. Angela clambered onto the broad back, settling into the customary gap between the two spikes. Had this ride been in the other world, her legs would have easily been flayed by the sharp sides of the scales. However here Anea's scales were smooth, unable to harm her passenger's legs in any way._

_Spreading pale green wings, Anea gracefully rose up into the air when she was sure her passenger was settled. She flew ever higher, so high the surrounding pale blue sky began to peel away, leaving only a star-filled void behind. The human witch clutched tightly to the spike before her, mind reeling from the incredible change in height and how she was now so high she was leaving the tallest mountains behind._

_"Gods, you can see everything from up here," Angela muttered. _

_Anea nodded. "Everything in the past and what should, could, and will most likely occur in the future. When I still lived my ancestors used to lead me up here. Now I must do the same for you, for though your sight is sharp, not even the strongest of the remaining oracles are able to foresee this event."_

_As the pair rose higher, the young woman was able to hear a low whisper in her ears. Though it started off as unintelligible murmuring, it gradually rose in volume until its ominous words became clear. This is how Angela and other human seers interpreted the future, as voices that whispered words of prophecy, predictions they were to carry on into reality. The voices she heard were those of a thousand souls that had come before, simultaneously speaking in a chorus of the ages._

_**"The fire as died out, a few smoldering embers all that remain. Among them one lurks a spark, one capable of rekindling the flames. However, he still denies his responsibility and hence cannot truly accept the power the ancestors wish to bestow upon him. Two princes long forgotten will be wrested from icy coils. Their coming shall help make to forgetful souls remember. Their call shall be the first of three, the first of the fire's return. For though dormant, the cinders still burn bright, waiting for their sparks, their calls."**_

_Below the vision of the mountain faded. Confusing fragments of images flickered in their place, blurs of color and snips of sound Angela's human mind was not able to fully comprehend. Still she understood the gist of the prophecy, the meaning of the visions of the future that was most likely to occur. _

_"Do you understand now, Angela?" Anea asked. "About the variables that can keep this prophecy from being fulfilled?"_

_The human nodded silently. There were enemies around every corner, all capable and willing to douse the stubborn embers that had remained burning for all these years. Enemies that wanted to make sure the two princes could never fulfill their duty. Keep the lost souls from remembering their true purposes. Anea had been sent by the same force to send her a message, a plea to protect the future of their kind. She was to be a guardian, one entrusted with dangerous knowledge so as to protect it._

_"You damned spirits have trusted me with minor duties, allowing me to know when important events were taking place," she said carefully. "What else can I do but make sure that thickheaded Eragon stays on course and make sure those adorable younglings don't wander into the jaws of the closest predator?"_

_Slowly but surely, Angela felt everything fade away. Her surroundings blurred into the coming blackness, the low whispers replaced by disconcerting silence. Anea vanished, leaving the human witch floating in oblivion. For a moment she remained there, stranded between one world and the next, before finally light and sound flooded into the abyss, drowning it and dragging her back into wakefulness...._

The witch yawned, stretching her limbs and calmly climbing to her feet. Solembum watched her from his perch upon her wooden table, usually unreadable red eyes glimmering with curiousity and mild concern. Angela chuckled, patting the werecat's head.

_Do I want to know what happened? _he asked simply, whiskers twitching.

"No," was her only response.

Solembum shrugged, dropping the matter altogether. The two resumed their argument as if nothing had ever happened, the bizarre incident all but forgotten.

**Next chapter: Eragon and Saphira return to the Varden with Eridor's eggs. However, Roran is waiting... And he wants answers.**

**1. Dragons and sea serpents are polar opposites, fire and ice. Their rival elements and incompatible magics make it impossible for them to be together for too long, especially if one is surrounded by the other.**

**2. Trinnean and Caradoc will NOT take Riders. They were born as wild dragon's eggs and will grow up to be wild dragons.**

**3. More on Angela and Anea will be explained, as well as how Anea was able to contact Angela so much. Don't worry, all about them will be revealed.**


	20. Act II: Chapter 7: Reconciliation

**I am so, so sorry for this late update. School and family matters have prevented me from posting sooner, as well as a slight case of writer's block. This is just a filler chapter meant to tie up soon loose ends and introduce some new conflict. More plot action will come next chapter, I promise, along with some more Saphira. **

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _does not belong to me. However, all original material, including my growing army of original characters, belong to me. **

Roran wondered if his sense of reality and acceptance would ever be the same. If someone had told him just a year ago that a year into the future he would have a celebrated Dragon Rider as a cousin, flee his village after it was burnt to the ground and lead the survivors to shelter in the camp of the notorious rebels, and be renowned as a hero for daring to defy the Empire, he never in his wildest imaginations could he have even fathomed it. But a lot had changed in that brief period of time. Some things for the worse. Others for the better.

Carvahall was razed to the ground, what had once been a thriving community now a charred pile of ash slowly being eroded by the elements. The heart of the village; the men, women and children, had almost all survived and were now safe in a place where Galbatorix could never rule over them again. They now saw him all as their leader, though their allegiances were now expected to lie with Lady Nasuada and the other lead rebels. The thought that so many lives were faithful to him, dependent on his guidance in their times of need, was a burden that haunted him at all hours of the day. However, the thought of leadership was not entirely unwelcome. A part of Roran noted that by daring to speak up and rally Carvahall he had risen above them, requesting their compliance. They had not objected him and hence saw him as a leader, a responsibility that was now his regardless of his opinion. Part of him embraced this position, the part of himself that allowed Roran to do his duties without allowing his reluctance to interfere.

Roran and Eragon had united after a year's worth of separation, and his little cousin's greatest secret was now known. For a long time Roran had thought Eragon had deserted him in his hour of need, running off with the senile old storyteller to pursue some foolhardy adventure before Garrow was even buried. Now Roran knew that Eragon had been raising a dragon, Saphira, in those last few months. He had left to hunt down Garrow's murderers and to ensure that Roran would be safe from all the trouble that had chased after him. Though both Roran and Eragon were changed men, they at least had some semblance of their old relationship back, with no pressing secrets to hinder them.

Katrina was now his and he hers in all ways but true marriage. With the recent skirmish and the stress of training Carvahall's men for combat, there had been no time for a wedding ceremony. At least there was now no Sloan to impede their love. The man may have died an agonizing way Roran would not wish upon his worst enemies, but that one barrier between them was gone forever.

However, now a new obstacle stood between the young couple, one that threatened to ruin them forever. Roran knew he only had so little time before Katrina's honor was tarnished for the rest her days, as well as the honor of their unborn child, but he was persistent to have Eragon marry them. The cousins still had awkwardness between them, old feelings not yet under the proverbial bridge. In his mind the young man knew that having Eragon recite the sacred words and have the Rider marry Roran and Katrina would clear away the last of the enmity, fully repair their broken bonds.

But, despite Eragon's promises that the family would spend more time together, the young Dragon Rider was mysteriously absent. The damn recluse barely ventured out of his tent, only emerging to formally converse with the most powerful individuals in the rebellion. The elves that constantly guarded his personal tent allowed none, not even Roran, to pass. They were under strict orders to make sure Eragon was not to be disturbed by anyone under any circumstances, and they were eager to oblige.

Roran had fumed in outrage, furious over the arrogance of his cousin. The damned fame had grown straight to his large head, making the fool pompous and cocky as could be. As if he had not the time to talk with even his own flesh and blood!

Lately, though, the young man could not help but wonder if there was a different reason for Eragon's absence.

Around the time of his cousin's isolation, the strange white dragon had shown up. Showing an amazing display of devastating power and driving the Imperial soldiers away before falling unconscious, Saphira had proclaimed him the King of the wild dragons. Others had been swift to take up the title, referring to him as King or Majesty. For want of a real name, a few had even dubbed him 'Bluefire' in tribute to the strange flames he breathed. 'Bluefire' and Saphira often went off together, causing rumors of intimacy to spring up. Neither were with Eragon much, but were somehow always present when the Dragon Rider made one of his rare appearances.

Over the days Roran had begun to notice odd coincidences that others simply ignored. Eragon's strange isolation had occured shortly after the male dragon's arrival, and he never showed his face unless accompanied by both dragons and his elfin guards.

From the rare glimpses he received of his cousin, Eragon was... off, somehow. The words that came from his mouth sometimes came before or after he had started moving his lips. He also seemed.... insubstantial, like a solid-looking ghost among the living or an illusion sustained by magic. Eragon had avoided even going near people, as if he feared being touched. Occasionally he strayed too close to an object or another and part of him would go through, though Roran had once dismissed this by a trick of the lightning. Now, however, he had a much stranger and admittedly far-fetched theory in mind. First, though, he had to find that Bluefire.....

"The dragons return!"

After a two day's long absence, Saphira and Bluefire had come back to the Varden. The announcement spread through the ranks of people, causing some to hang back and crane their heads upward for a glimpse of the mighty creatures. Roran, who had been sulking outside his tent in deep meditation upon his current predicament, could not resist the urge to glance up as well.

Saphira led the way, her sapphire scales making her look like a fragment of the clear sky that had descended from above the sulphurous clouds that constantly plagued the Burning Plains to grace the stationed army. Though clearly exhausted, she flew straight on past the camp to a uninhabited area east of it. Bluefire trailed behind her, reddish mouth open as if to inhale as much air as possible. His wings were spread wide, catching enough wind to sustain a slow glide. His flight occasionally faltered, giving the feeling his wings would fail and make him plummet to the earth at any moment.

Angling his wings, the white male sluggishly dove for an empty patch of ground to land on. This convienently was located near Roran, given him the opportune moment to converse with this supposed King of the wild dragons.

Alighting heavily upon the earth, Bluefire's legs were splayed out, his long neck drooping while his wings hung lifelessly at his heaving sides. Panting heavily, the dragon remained in this prone position for several moments, his burning blue eyes glazed over with exhaustion. One trembling paw was stubbornly clenched around some mysterious object, refusing to let it go. The white dragon seemed oblivious to Roran's presence, concentrating only on regaining his breath. Saphira patiently circled overhead like a hawk, awaiting her companion's return.

Roran gulped nervously, afraid of confronting this large dragon that was capable of swallowing him whole.

"No. Don't think like that Roran," he muttered aloud to himself. "You can do this. Interrogating an exhausted dragon on whether he is actually your cousin or not cannot be more difficult than leading a village of people to safety."

Emerging from his hiding place, the young man cautiously approached. Bluefire glanced at him, still panting heavily. Though his burning blue eyes were foreign, familiar traces of alarm and shame flickered through them. Growing confident by this positive sign, Roran nodded calmly.

"Impressive," he said mildly. "Most humans that were transformed into dragons must take weeks just to learn the basics of flight. You learned to fly astonishing distances in an incredibly short period of time, _Eragon._"

The white dragon gave an audible sigh of defeat, his composure back at last. When Roran felt a mind lightly brushing against his own, politely asking permission to enter, he swiftly lowered his mental fortifications to allow the visitor in. He may have felt this consciousness few times before, but he still recognized it as Eragon's.

_Roran..... _Eragon's voice emanated from the strange body, unmistakable even such bizarre circumstances. The white dragon's head was lowered not in exhaustion, but in shame, unable to directly look his own flesh and blood in the eye. _I am sorry. I never, never asked for this._

The young human nodded. His cousin may have been a legendary Shur'tugal, connected with a dragon and somehow dependent upon that intimate bond, but Roran sensed that Eragon had not desired to actually _become_a dragon. Such a transformation was involuntary and irreversible, surely. "I understand, cousin. Magic like that at the.... Blood-Oath Ceremony must have caused this. Am I right?"

Eragon nodded sheepishly. _Back at Helgrind, while you were off rescuing Katrina, Saphira and I were ambushed by the Lethrblaka and their blasted children. We were both incapacitated and those dogs... threatened to harm Saphira. I grew furious and felt a powerful fire engulf me. When I woke up the Ra'zac and the Lethrblaka were dead and I was a dragon._

Ah, the transformation had occurred at Helgrind. Roran had suspected that to be the case, as his cousin had disappeared and that bossy she-dragon had carried him and Katrina off, obviously anxious to return to the Varden and fly back as soon as possible. No wonder why Saphira had been so absentminded on the flight.

"What.... triggered it? Some defense mechanism for Dragon Riders or something?"

_A dead King dragon by the name of Eridor lay dormant within me since my birth. When he sensed that the she-dragon who had once been his mate in another life was in danger, he awoke and exerted his influence upon me, transforming me into a dragon. _Noticing Roran's flabbergasted look of the utmost confusion, Eragon snorted flatly. _Don't ask, Roran. Just know that the transformation is permanent and the King dragon transferred his powers to me, meaning I recieved the abilities you saw at the battle with Murtagh._

Roran shrugged. Had he still been living his sheltered life of blissful ignorance in Carvahall, he would have thought Eragon mad. But now he had been exposed to furry elves, insane witches, titanic clashes between fire-breathing dragons and had bashed two dangerous magicians to death with only a hammer. Miraculous transformations brought on by the spirit of a dead dragon did not seem all that impossible now. Considering the circumstances, it ranked just below improbable.

"If half the adventures you told me about are true, then I can surely believe that," he answered mildly. Before posing his next question he cautiously glanced about, half-expecting to spot a transparent ghost hovering around Eragon. "What happened to that dead dragon anyway? It's not possessing you somehow, is it?"

The white dragon shook his head, giving a fanged smirk. _Eridor may be trapped inside of my mind, but I am in complete control. _It was not a bright idea to let his hammer-wielding kin know that said aforementioned uninvited spirit could possess his body for a brief but noticeable amount of time. Nope, not good at all. _He is able to speak for himself and is an independent entity that happens to be inside me. You can talk to that blasted squatter if you want, but I can feel he's still too caught up in his reunion to even notice you're here._

"Reunion?"

Sighing, Eragon extended one of his forepaws. He unclenched it, revealing the object concealed inside. Appearing exactly like a polished stone, it was a shade of pale dusky blue, like that of a distant sky. Roran reached out as if to feel it, but recoiled with a sharp inhale of breath. He may not have been a Dragon Rider or a master of magic, but he certainly recognized a dragon's egg when it was a dragon showing it to him!

_Don't look at me like that! _Eragon snapped in exasperation. _First off, if Saphira and I even did mate, she would still be carrying the eggs. Second, like I mentioned earier, this egg is Eridor's and his mate, Safiri's. A friend of theirs managed to hide it and another of their eggs away for over a hundred years. Saphira and I were tasked with retrieving the eggs and returning them here. Eridor is occupied with the hatchling inside this egg, Caradoc. His brother, Trinnean, is with Saphira._

Roran nodded, unable to conceal his look of immense relief. He knew absolutely nothing on the reproductive habits of dragons, but he was hoping that he would be a father before Eragon even had physical relationships on the mind, thank you very much. Eragon may have been oblivious to the fact that he and Saphira were now the only eligible mating pair in Alagaesia and already quite close, but his elder cousin could easily see how such a close connection of friendship and devotion could develop into full blown love.

Now, here came the time for his own confession...

"Eragon," he began, holding the words out for as long as humanly possible. "Cousin..... Brother....."

In a split second, the tides had shifted in the dragon's favor. Blue eyes losing fear for amusement and patience, the white male gazed down upon with an expression that befitted a benevolent god. Gentle reassurance radiated from his mind, soothing Roran's inhibitions and prompting him to continue on.

"I saught you out today not only to finally discover the truth, but to ask a favor of you, Eragon. Perhaps what might be greatest favor a man can ask of anyone, relative or not. I can perfectly understand if you decide to refuse."

Lowering his head, Eragon looked him straight in the eye. Though his burning blue gaze was foreign, Roran could easily envision his younger cousin peering out from that dragon's body. _Cousin, I have forsaken you when we were the only family each other had. When Saphira hatched for me, I never told you or Garrow of the truth. I have wronged you many times, more so than I would like to admit. Helping you rescue Katrina eased only a little of my debt. If you request me to go and defeat Galbatorix singlehandedly so that you may become King yourself, I will gladly do so._

Roran sighed. "Katrina is carrying my child, though we are not yet married. A son or daughter born out of wedlock is destined for lifelong ridicule and failure. My love and I must be married soon, lest others discover what we have done." His brown eyes glowed with an earnest light, a smile ghosting his lips. "Eragon, will you do me the honor of marrying us?"

The white dragon remained silent for a moment. Finally, he began carefully, _No one must know that Bluefire and Eragon Shadeslayer are one and the same, Roran. Allowing a dragon to marry you is certainly an unusual request, one others will inevitably question. In their eyes, you are allowing a mere beast to join you and your lover together in eternal matrimony._

"What others think of the matter does not matter to me. They are not the ones getting married. Besides, 'Bluefire' is close with Saphira, 'Eragon's' dragon. Since the Shadeslayer himself is unable to perform the ceremony, he requested that his dragon's close companion do it in his stead." Roran beamed. "After all, how many couples can boast that they were married by the King of the wild dragons himself?"

Flashing another fanged grin, Eragon nodded in consent. The brothers in all but blood then spent hours talking, commenting on their current situations and reminiscing upon the past, not to mention making plans for the upcoming wedding. Needless to say, their familial bond was restored to its original closeness, and only continued to grow stronger.

* * *

Arya heaved a heavy sigh, closing her emerald eyes in relief. At last, the difficult task from hell was over! Training the amateur magicians of the Du Vrangr Gata was always a trying task. Most of the members barely knew how to heal the smallest of bruises, much less use their magical abilities for something other than mediocre medical purposes. Today had been a especially trying day. The other elves that usually assisted in the lessons had gone, choosing to hone their own skills over training hopeless greenhorns. Trianna had not been any help, instead hanging back and sabotaging the elf-woman's efforts in just about every subtle way possible. Needless to say, Arya was ready to snap and start belting out the spells of death if yet another human asked her again how to perform that damned spell.

Making her way through the camp, others sensed her agitation and wisely gave the irritated elf a large birth. The last man that had stumbled upon Arya when she was in a bad mood had been left to dangle helplessly in the air while others had raced about, searching for a magician skilled enough to break the enchantment. Arya was determined to spend the rest of the day in the solitude of her personal tent, and hurried past even the most respected of rebels without even inclining her head. She was too bothered and preoccupied in her own rants to bother with the pointless pleasantries that came with her position.

At last Arya had made it to the refuge of her tent. Sighing in relief, she sealed the entrance with a quick spell, ensuring her privacy until she was ready to once again face the outside world. Sitting down upon the solitary chair that adorned her quarters, the female elf relished in the silence she had spelled upon the canvas walls, allowing the stresses of the day to slowly flow out of her exhausted mind.

When she had calmed after a few moments of peace, Arya got up, making her way across the area of the large tent to a bag that was placed upon a table. Inside were herbs she had personally selected and picked from the gardens in Ellesmera. She was planning to make a tea, specifically created to ease the troubled minds of its drinkers.

As she reached down to retrieve the reqyired herbs, Arya made an interesting discovery. Eyes narrowing, she picked the object of her curiosity up in her fine hands, examining it closely.

It was a small sculpture, one made of wood. Though it had intricate details and outstanding craftsmanship, subtle flaws in the design suggested that it had not been crafted out of magic. Instead it had been created by hand, a skill that most elves did not bother with anymore, unless they desired to. If you had magic to craft perfect sculptures, then why allow flaws to mar your prized creations?

The wood had been sculpted into a lynx, a graceful wild cat that resided in the untamed wilderness of Du Weldenvarden. Lynxes had always secretly been Arya's favorite animal. She had always admired their beautiful spotted coats, their natural grace that put even elves to shame, their amazing ability to blend in with the dappled shadows and disappear while they crouched in plain sight. Though she was loathed to admit to anyone, Arya had loved these gorgeous cats since her faraway childhood, and held a special fondness for them even presently.

Arya frowned, mulling over the mystery. None in the Varden knew much about her, much less her general likes and dislikes. Even Eragon, when he had still held that unhealthy infatuation for her, had never discovered her love of lynxes. But if her love was still a secret, then how had this little wooden lynx made its way into her tent.

She glanced down at the table, just noticing a small folded piece of parchment that had been positioned under the carving. Placing the lynx back upon the table, Arya picked up and inspected the note. Its writing was not in the rough and graceless letters of the men, but the graceful and familiar elvish runes she had grown up with. Furthermore, the message was not written in the men's language, but the ancient language, her maiden tongue.

She read aloud, _"For the woman that has everything else she possibily desires. Let this be a reminder of her past, of all you left behind. No matter how far you've come and how you think otherwise, know that it's always possible to find your way back home, where loyal friends still wait for her. And let this be a reminder to you; never forget who you once were. Who you still are on the inside."_

Frowning, Arya mused over the contents of the note. The author had signed his or her name, but their identity could be easily determined. Not many people her were well-learned in elvish runes or the ancient language. The only ones she could think of were the elves that Blodgharm had led, but she knew none of them. All were decades older than her, and was only vaguely acquainted with them. Certainly none knew of her secret past, or her favorite animal.

Unless this elf was not one of the followers, but the leader himself....

With a gasp, Arya realized she _recognized _this sculpture. She had last seen it over eighty years ago, when she had still be young and naive for an elf. In her fury she had casted the little lynx out into the wilderness, abandoning it along with all the tender memories of the individual that had given it to her. She had though the lynx carving lost forever, absorbed back into the forest and reverting to what it had once been, a dead piece of wood.

Someone had rescued the lynx from its wooded grave and had restored it to its original appearance. When Arya had seen it last it had been battered from its sheer age, most of the finer details worn away and dull when being handled so often. Now the spotted cat was young again, rejuvenated by some caring hands. Its claws were sharpened and its spotted pelt polished, gleaming merrily in the sunlight that filtered in. The lynx gazed up at her with carved eyes, and the elf-woman thought she saw amusement in their wooden depths.

"You," she whispered, looking down at the cat.

Gently stowing both the note and the carving into her pocket, Arya set off, prior woes forgotten at this startling new discovery. She had an old friend to confront.... And some old demons to finally put to rest.

* * *

Since his hatching, Thorn's life had been an unending series of trials and punishments all engineered by his _beloved _master Galbatorix. His days consisted of hunting and sparring (being viciously attacked by) Shruikan, anything necessary to hone his skills and keep him in prime condition. Thorn was also very aware that the King thought of him nothing more than a glorified slave. A large slave, aye, with inhuman power and strength, but involuntarily bound to his master and forced to obey every command no matter his own feelings.

Today's task however, was strange even for Galbatorix's unconventional training (known to Thorn as torture). The Black King had ordered both the red dragon and Murtagh to fly out to a distant forest and hunt. Together they were to catch the largest and plumpest deer they could find and return to the dragon-hold with the prey animals dead but intact.

Thorn was confused over his master's peculiar orders. Usually Galbatorix was vigorous in his training, making sure both of his prized servants were productive from before dawn to long after sunset. Lately, however, his interest in preparing Murtagh and his dragon had wavered. The Mad King was preoccupied with something else, a mysterious project neither of his slaves had any knowledge about. They were simply given busy work, no doubt to keep them from investigating. Thanks to Galbatorix's strict orders of obedience, Thorn and Murtagh were forced to waste precious hours completing the useless tasks.

This task however, was different from the meditation and sparring that Galbatorix had earlier assigned to them. There had been something unusual glittering in those soulless black eyes of his master, a feral excitement that chilled Thorn to the center of his Eldunari. The Mad King was planning something sinister, and these dead deer appeared to be part of it.

But why would these animals be useful? There were ancient rituals of the darkest kinds that required blood or some other terrible ingredient to function, but these involved live animal sacrifices. Nor was Thorn merely catching Shruikan breakfast. Galbatorix was fiercely possessive over his captive dragon, and strictly managed his food intake. The dread black dragon was only fed cattle bred specially for the purpose. Rumor had it that the Black King was paranoid that Shruikan's meat may have been contaminated with some poison intended to harm himself through their shared mental link, and hence refused any food for his dragon that did not originate from his own closely supervised herds.

"Ah," Murtagh muttered mockingly, dark eyes alight with dread. "Home sweet home."

Thorn now flew over the Fortress, spiraling in a gradual descent. In each front paw he carried the two largest stags he could find. He also carried a third in his back-claws. Murtagh, who had been forced to come along for the pointless journey, sat upon the red dragon's back, eager to retreat to the relative privacy of his own personal quarters to rest.

Now hovering above the entrance to the dragon-hold, Thorn released the deer in his back-claws onto the floor so that he could land safely. Folding his wings, he then landed with a heavy thud, simultaneously dropping the other two stags unceremoniously to the ground. There the crimson dragon simply stood for a moment, flexing the paws that were sore from clinging such a heavy load for so long.

Then Thorn noticed something was amiss. Very, very amiss.

The young male raised his head to the air, nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. His nose burned from the strong odor that than pervaded his senses, choking him momentarily. Vermilion eyes narrowing, Thorn remained still for several moments, trying to identify the scent.

Unbidden, visions and smells from his ancestral memory emerged to provide him instantaneous answers. This scent was one his ancestors knew well. Wild male dragons, particularly young ones that had just won a territory of their own, excreted such an odor to mark the boundaries of their land. These marked borders were jealously guarded, and any intruder that dared cross those lines were likely to be attacked and chased out.

Glancing around, Thorn saw the source of this unpleasant scent. Teeth baring reflexively, Murtagh slowly reached for his blade as the pair at last noticed an unwelcome visitor.

A stone-gray male dragon lay curled up in the far corner of the dragon-hold. He was more than twice the size of Thorn, and he was estimated to be over thirty years old. Numerous scars riddled his hide, the largest of this was a large and permanent indentation of fangs imprinted into his serpentine neck. The walls and floor around him bore gouges from his sharp claws, and scorch marks from where he had singed them. Just at a quick glance, Thorn knew this unfamiliar male would prove a formidable opponent.

The gray dragon appeared to have been rudely roused from a nap, and was obviously not pleased at the interruption. His cold eyes had narrowed, his fangs slowly revealing themselves in a furious snarl. A growl bubbled up from the male's throat, one that was both a warning to leave his territory and a challenge to venture in for a confrontation.

Thorn did not hesitate to return the challenging growl. His body had tensed in preparation for a fight, instinctively settling into a crouch.

_What are you doing? _Murtagh hissed. The red dragon suddenly became aware again his human was one his back, sitting in the uncomfortable saddle that hindered his movements. Murtagh's anger and disbelief were clear, and there was evidence that suggested fear lurked beneath his harsh words. _Do you want to get yourself killed, Thorn? This challenger is more than twice your size and many times your own young age!_

_Then why not incapacitate him with your magic and be done with it? _Thorn snapped back. This irritating gray dragon had offended him, insulting him by marking Thorn's dragon-hold as his own. Fury was slowly drowning out his common sense, and he knew that if his Rider did not intervene soon he would lunge either way.

_I can't! _the human shot back. _For some reason my damn oaths are preventing me from accessing my magic. I don't understand it, _he muttered to himself. _Galbatorix ordered me to do whatever necessary to capture a free Rider or dragon and bring them back alive. Surely those oaths constitute something even when the dragon is already at Urubaen!_

Huffing furiously, the stone-gray dragon staggered to his paws. Thorn's mind noted how unsteadily his challenger stood upon his own four legs, how his limbs trembled with exhaustion. There was a dull luster to those cold eyes, glazed over from a lack of sleep. The red dragon gave a fanged smirk, his confidence rising as he saw these telltale signs of weakness.

_It doesn't matter, Murtagh, _he answered coolly. _This intruder can barely support his own weight at the moment. He is in no condition to fight a juvenile hatchling, much less a young adult with the power of Galbatorix behind him! If I can stand up to the dread dragon Shruikan himself on numerous occasions and survive each time, then a victory over an exhausted opponent is within my reach._

His bothersome Rider was already beginning his reprimand, but Thorn cut him short. Shaking his back, the dragon quickly dislodged his irksome passenger, unceremoniously tossing him to the ground. Free of his burden, he let out a low bellow, challenging the stone-gray dragon again.

His rival answered with a weak roar of his own. Despite his exhaustion, his eyes burned with a vaguely familiar rage. The strange male crouched into a defensive position, watching his younger but stronger opponent intently.

Thorn charged, lowering his horned head like a ram as he did so. This blow caught the gray dragon in the side, rocketing him across the hold to crash into the solid wall. Snarling, Thorn's rival lashed out with his clawed paws, his sluggish movements easy to deflect. Struggling to his paws, the gray dragon reared up, foolishly exposing his underbelly.

Thorn brought down his head with the intention of slamming head-on into the easy target. While the underbelly of a dragon was one of the most heavily protected parts, a strong attack could knock the breath out of the opponent and lead to an easy victory.

However, the gray dragon was no fool. While his younger enemy was focused on his offense, the elder male unleashed a powerful counterattack of his own. Ghostly blue-gray flames flew out of his open maw, just sailing by Thorn's horns to scorch a wall. Memories of that recent burning all-too vivid, the red dragon subconsciously skittered back in fright of the fire. Using this to his advantage, the gray male pounced, trapping his younger rival firmly beneath his massive weight. Fangs hovering just mere inches from Thorn's vulnerable throat, the mysterious rival had thoroughly incapacitated the crimson dragon.

Stunned, Murtagh at last came to his senses. Brandishing Zar'roc, he advanced toward the pair, clearly intending to gut this strange gray dragon despite his puzzling lack of magic.

_Enough_, an unfamiliar male voice snapped, his mental forces overriding both Rider and dragon's barricades as easily as Galbatorix could. Unwillingly, Thorn ceased in his struggling and Murtagh in his advancement, their binding oaths physically preventing them from moving. Regarding them with a cold gray eye, the elder dragon smirked, his grim satisfaction bleeding over into both of the linked minds.

"How are you doing that?" Murtagh demanded, fighting against his oaths. "Only the King has such control over us!"

_Fool, _the gray dragon said. _Have you no respect for your elders? I am Jarshan, king of the wild dragons. It was because of my efforts that our master's rebellion against the Shur'tugal was not crushed during its early stages. Master Galbatorix treasures me above all the rest of his pathetic servants. It is only natural he would give me free reign over you two. _Jarshan sniffed in disdain. _As if such a thing is now considered an honor._

_If you have such high standing with Galbatorix, then why did you allow me to attack you? _Thorn asked. _You could just have easily announced your authority over the both of us and spared yourself the obvious effort of a fight for dominance. _

Slate-gray eyes narrowing dangerously, Jarshan snorted. _I am a **wild **dragon, little hatchling. We are not ones to take the easy way out unless it pleases us to do so. I have fought and won against death itself to return to this world, but not even such a difficult battle could prevent me from properly displaying my power over a rebellious young one such as yourself. I merely made sure your Rider could not use his little magic tricks to save you. Unfair advantages like that do not sit well with me._

Releasing Thorn, Jarshan staggered backward, his exhaustion apparent. Despite this, he maintained a snarl of pride as he turned his back on Murtagh and his dragon. Stumbling toward the deer, he lowered his head and began to eat with a voracious enthusiasm.

Not wanting to anger this powerful and pride creature, Murtagh quietly slipped out of the dragon-hold to his own personal quarters while Thorn retreated to the roof of the Fortress. Unconcerned, Jarshan continued to eagerly devour the meat, slaking a hunger that had not been attended to for almost a century.

**Next chapter: Saphira watches over the eggs and has a discussion with Nasuada about their fate. Also... for the first time in a hundred years.... comes the hatching of a wild dragon.**

**1. Roran is a smart person, though he tends to follow up on his impulses like a certain ex-Dragon Rider we all know -.-. It was only a matter of time before he found out the truth. No, chances are I won't include the wedding scene. Let's just say it's kind of like the one in _Brisingr, _only Eragon is a giant dragon and there is no attack from Murtagh after. **

**2. Arya moments will be kept to a minimum. Expect maybe just one or two more parts concerning her this section.**

**3. Yes, I am aware Jarshan is a filthy hypocrite. Was the final section important for establishing character relationships and revealing some insight into the mind of a villain? Yes.**


	21. Act II: Chapter 8: Questions

**I apologize for all the months of waiting. But this chapter wouldn't make me finish it any sooner. Blame a very, very bad case of writer's block on this one, folks. And this chapter is mostly filler/setting things up for upcoming events. But the next chapter will contain actual plot movement, mark my words.**

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _is not mine. However, all original material belongs to me, like the 'true' nature of Elva's curse. That includes original characters like Trinnean and Caradoc.**

Thorn did not sleep again that night, as usual. Sometimes intense training sessions with Shruikan were enough to knock him into deep slumbers, but such occasions were rare. His body thrummed with permanent energy, bothering his restless mind and making him unable to drift off into peaceful oblivion. Constantly brushing up against the corners of his consciousness were the minds of the dragons of the Eldunarya, imprisoned as he was. Thorn had given up trying to have conversation with them; all retreated if he even considered making contact and one particularly aggressive female had a habit of lashing out and giving him sensations of phantom pain.

Since he had been a young hatchling barely out of the egg, Galbatorix had taken it upon himself to 'improve' the red dragon by implanting the sentient souls of the Elundarya into his body. Murtagh had been pardoned from such experimentation only because their master didn't feel like wasting his dragons' hearts on a 'useless human slave.' But Thorn had endured the enchantments since an early age. He had five Elundarya in him now; all securely lodged in his chest cavity in the spaces between his internal organs. The soul containers gave him the strength and endurance of a dragon far beyond his young age of six months. The souls of his elder kinsmen tampered with his natural growth, causing his body to develop at a far faster rate. At the age of six months Thorn had been large enough to rival Saphira in battle, a she-dragon almost more than twice his age.

Kept awake by five seperate souls that no longer had the need to sleep, Thorn turned his attention to his surroundings. With long nights of lonliness up in the dragon-hold, he spent hours just _listening. _To the night servants going quietly about their duties, to the muffled conversations and scandals carrying out in the deserted floors below his home. Even to Shruikan's restless stirring, as he rumbled and paced about Galbatorix's cramped throne room.

Tonight, though, Thorn had a new visitor to what he had previously considered _his _dragon-hold. (Why wouldn't it be his? Murtagh had his own private quarters on the level below and Shruikan never left the throne room, save for some very rare sparring sessions with his pupil.) A rather grouchy roommate that had forced him into submission and claimed the highest level of the Fortress as his own.

Jarshan, the self-proclaimed King of the wild dragons, was slumbered in the farthest corner of the hold, as far from his only other companion as humanly possible. Sprawled out with his massive head on his paws, the only sounds he emanated were his deep and heavy breaths and the occasional growl. Deep in slumber, the malevolent aura that accompanied him when he was awake was nonexistent. Here he was peaceful, not the beast that had beat Thorn into submission when he himself had been on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion.

Observing this peculiar male, Thorn could now notice the disturbing resemblance between Jarshan and the same white dragon that had permanently marred his underbelly. They had the same odd six horns, a feature Thorn had never seen on any other of his race. While Jarshan was thinner in the snout than that _King Bluefire _was, their features appeared identical otherwise. Gods, their eyes even had that same _intense _look, a burning determination that chilled Thorn right to the core of his own Eldunari.

_You five! _he shouted, directing his thoughts inward to the five separate entities that were tied to his own. _This Jarshan before me claims to have fought his way out of death's hold to live again. He is also a servant of Galbatorix, a willing one that no doubt helped betray the wild dragons during the Fall of the Shur'tugal. What do you know of him?_

Four of the souls ignored his request, returning to their own private sanctums where he could not follow. The fifth, the same aggressive she-dragon that took a habit of lashing out at him whenever he ventured too close, remained in range. She laughed mockingly, bitter and disgusted as usual, but willing to offer some of the truth.

_He is a false King, _the she-dragon's soul answered spitefully. _One whose claim to power is that of a coward who could strike down the rightful ruler only with the assistance of the same unnatural magic your master and Rider harness. The wild dragons do not recognize a King of the wild dragons anymore, especially not the traitor Jarshan. _

Thorn had thought as such. Proud as Jarshan may be, he also exaggerated his own importance in the matter of things. Focusing on Jadine's mind-- Jadine was definitely her real name, he knew that much about her-- he asked the question her statement had insinuated:

_No King at all? Surely you have heard of the white dragon that has sided with the Varden, the same one that showed his face for the first time at the skirmish of the Burning Plains?_

_Of course I have heard of the one you call Bluefire, _Jadine responded scornfully. _But he is no true ruler. King Eridor perished over a century ago along with all of his relatives and heirs. With their deaths was that of the kingship, for the powers were passed down by right of inheritance and triumph over the previous leader. Bluefire has some access to the legendary powers of the dragon Kings, aye, but only with the aid of the one that shelters within his body. He has not yet undergone the King's Trial, and as such is ruler of none but himself._

_Jarshan must be the new King then, since even you mentioned he defeated Eridor in some way! _Thorn protested. He glanced over at the sleeping stone-gray male, once again noticing the ugly scar that adorned his neck, the remnant of a crushing bite dealt by another. _The scar upon his neck must be evidence of the blow that must have first killed him. Since none but perhaps the most powerful of beings could escape death itself, surely that must be proof of his kingship?_

Jadine gave a hoarse laugh, her voice ringing with cruelty. _That is only a mark of his madness, nothing more. A lasting monument of his foolishness and arrogance. He obtained that scar long before he died? And his death? Caused by a lucky blow of a dying she-dragon trying to avenge her family and kind. She caught him by surprise and caught his heart with her claws, succumbing to her own wounds soon after. An act of fortune, one that prevented Jarshan from spreading his disease upon more of the world. _Agression suddenly reared up in her like a starving snake, and Thorn sensed her mental powers building up into a strike meant for him. _I tire of this petty conversation, traitor. Desire to know more? Go ahead and ask that monster yourself. If I am lucky, you shall kill you and us along with you. Then my misery can end at last._

Sensing the impending blow, Thorn quickly severed the link and retreated to his own personal corner of their connected consciousness. Jadine may have been likely insane, but her rants had provided valuable insights into Jarshan's mysterious past. Perhaps he investigated further, all of the questions he possessed about the gray male would be answered at last.

Turning his head, the crimson dragon sneaked a glance at his companion. Jarshan remained stone-still, and Thorn would have thought him dead were it not for his slow breathing. Could he risk intruding into Jarshan's mind and discovering the truth for himself at that very moment? If so, what would he stumble across? The secret about returning from the dead? The ability of how to acquire the King's powers for himself, so that he may at last have the strength to break himself free of the oaths and enchantments that bound him to Galbatorix?

No, it would not be wise to act upon his impulse now. Exhausted as he was, Jarshan had proved he was still a formidable oppenet even on the brink of fainting. The devastation he would show to an interloper that had trespassed his deepest thoughts and most personal memories made Thorn shudder at the mere thought of it.

Tonight, he would rest. But that did not mean he would give up this endeavour. Thorn's interest had been piqued in Jarshan, and there was no quelling it once it had rose up.

For this maniacle gray dragon held the secret of returning to the realm of the living. If one could beat death, surely it would be far easier just to break a few supposedly unbreakable oaths of allegiance to a mad and ruthless King that also happened to be an invincible Dragon Rider?

* * *

It was another lazy day at the Varden's camp, or as lazy as an afternoon of a tent city of rebel soldiers and magicians could be. The heat of the Burning Plains was unnatural, the burning sun glaring up overhead doing nothing to assuage the unbearable temperatures. It was unwise for men to be drilling in armor in such conditions, and as such all activities regarding such matters had been cancelled. The hot soldiers sought comfort in the shade of their tents or creaped out to bathe in the murky waters of the nearby Jiet River. Members of the Du Vrangr Gata scrambled about, doing their best to cool overheated people and procuring water for all to avoid dehydration.

Nasuada, the diligent commander that she was, was not about to allow the burning heat to impede an afternoon's worth of potential progress. Gathering up all those that knew of Eragon's draconic identity (which meant Arya, herself, Angela, Blodgharm and his elves) she set about redesigning plans of offense against the Empire. Most didn't know they no longer had a Dragon Rider on their side, and Nasuada was determined to modify existing plans to fit two dragons, one of which had access to incredible power that had driven back an entire squadron of Imperial soldiers.

While the heat was hell to humans, it was an entirely different story for the two dragons that resided with them. Since they had inner fires far hotter than the day always burning inside them, the extreme conditions were like a mild summer day to them. Eragon lay sprawled out in the dirt, his snow-white scales reddish from the dust, snoring. He was thoroughly exhausted from the extended flights and hard training sessions Eridor made him complete daily, and the former King had at last relented. Thus the living white dragon got a nice afternoon respite, while Eridor brooded somewhere deep inside his head.

Basking in the sunlight, Saphira didn't have the will to drift off as her companion had so eagerly done. Her mind was whirling with thoughts and fears, all primarily centered around the two eggs she had helped to retrieve from the sea serpents of Vroengard. Caradoc and Trinnean's eggs, like little fragments of heaven, lay between her and Eragon. Neither had showed the slightest signs of preparations of hatch since their rescue, but Eridor didn't seem to care. He was simply content to be in the presence of his surviving family.

"Unable to nap, I see."

Raising her head off her paws, Saphira found herself staring into the violet gaze of Elva. The cursed girl had sneaked up on her while she was preoccupied with her musing, the silent little shadow that she was. Narrowing her eyes, the sapphire-scaled she-dragon regarded the other female suspiciously. She knew Elva to the reincarnated spirit of the adopted daughter of her past life, but the memories of how the dragon in human's skin had bitterly tortured Eragon with the knowledge he had effectively murdered an innocent baby were too strong to shrug off.

_You have a lot of nerve coming back here, _Saphira told her flatly. She entertained a notion of chasing Elva off, but the prospect of having an earnest conversation with another that knew of her secrets (not to mention knowledge of her past life as Safiri) were too tempting to resist. _But I will hear you out, for the she-dragon you once were was once close to my soul, even though I cannot remember those days._

"I still am that she-dragon." Elva knelt down beside the eggs, uncaring of how the red dust dirtied her already sweaty dress. Why would a she-dragon that had once been frequently stained red from the blood her kills care about such trivial matters of her appearance? Saphira noticed how dangerously gaunt she was, no doubt a painful side-effect of the curse that forced her to bear the pain of all those around her, which caused her to regurgitate most of what she consumed. "You awakened by in Tronjheim and gave me a chance of at least saving myself, if not Elvana." She smiled wanly. "Now I am but a she-dragon shackled in the unconventional prison of a human girl."

_I cannot assist you there, Elva. Something within me told me to press my snout to your forehead and give you a blessing I could not fathom at the time. I doubt I can work the same impossible miracle to transform you into a dragon as Eridor did to Eragon._

She waved a hand dismissively. "That I am well aware of, Saphira. King... and Queen dragons possess abilities many other beings can not even begin to fathom. Legend says they share a close bond with their predecessors, one far stronger than their common dragons share with their ancestral memories. I would find it impossible that even a god could revert me to my draconic state. After all, that body is no doubt dust by now." Elva peered curiously up at her, as if trying to glimpse something that was not there. "Strange. Your body bears remarkable resemblance with Safiri's, far more than common reincarnates have with their past lives. Are you sure she is not stirring at all within your mind?"

Saphira shook her head doubtfully. She herself had thought that sometimes, that she and her own past life would share a relationship like what her former Rider shared with the King inside his head. With Caradoc and Trinnean under her guardianship, the she-dragon believed Safiri would soon awake so as to help raise her surviving children. But aside from the very rare urges to act upon impulses that were not her own or the even rarer visions of her past life, Safiri remained dormant.

Elva shrugged. "I should have predicted as much. Safiri did not have the same passion that Eridor had. She did not bear grudges and did not dwell long upon matters that were beyond her control. She accepted her death and the loss of an active role in the realm of the living." She smiled softly, displaying a tenderness Saphira had not seen in the cured girl before. "It is good that she can find peace, despite all of the torture she endured toward the end of her days. Such forgiveness is rare in our kind."

Oh, she could all too well agree with this one. She still secretly harbored strong dislike toward Arya for so cruelly rejecting Eragon and crushing his futile hopes all those months ago. The sapphire she-dragon knew it had been for the best, but that didn't mean she liked the elf-woman for handling her Rider so callously when gentler treatment could have been used.

_I see you do not share the same gift, _she remarked dryly. _Eragon was but a naive boy when he blessed Elvana. His intentions were pure, if misguided and ill-timed. One mistake on his part does not mean you have to constantly bring back the unforeseeable consequences whenever you converse with him._

A humorless chuckle was her response to that comment. "Forgive me, for I am not even human. For all I've endured, I still have the fickle heart of a wild dragon. We can carry grudges for centuries, and our fiery nature can make us upset over the pettiest of offenses. My true form and Elvana can be taken from me, but not my bitterness. Not my hatred. For they are all the blessings I have left in the world."

_Then why not kill yourself and be done with it! _Saphira snapped in exasperation, fed up with the girl's self-loathing and negative attitude. _Stop bemoaning your pathetic and cursed resistance and solve your own dilemma. Do the souls of dragons not return to the heavens after their new lives end? Among the stars you will be free of the burdens that plague you down here. Return to life at a later date, when the war and all the suffering it sows are but fading memories in this land._

"Look up at the stars one night, foolish young she-dragon," Elva whispered almost inaudibly, her voice so soft Saphira's sharp hears had trouble hearing her words. "There lie all of heaven's remaining dragons. See how few there are left. Where have the rest gone, the multitude slaughtered so long ago? Many are trapped down here in prisons of their own making, unable to ascend to their rightful places in the sky. Others choose to be reborn on their own free will. Recently plenty of them fell into new bodies, far more than in the past. We're all waiting for something, Saphira. Something that is going to happen very soon."

Gazing into those violet eyes, the she-dragon found herself staring into endless pools of knowledge. Here was a soul that had witnessed the unknown events of death and the afterlife, had been reborn into the world through some ancient cycle Saphira knew nothing about. Elva had wandered a mysterious void where all mortal men feared to venture. Her eyes knew the answers to life's greatest secrets. Possessed more wisdom than perhaps even the sage Oromis.

And Saphira wandered if she herself had once been privvy to such knowledge during her brief afterlife as Safiri, and had forgotten what Elva still remembered.

_What is going to happen? What even can possibly spur countless dragons to descend upon the world in such vast numbers?_

Elva shrugged helplessly, stroking one of the egg's smooth light blue surface with a pale hand. "I doubt we even remember it ourselves. Up there you can see everything that ever was and ever will be. You know all and see all. Dragons about to be reborn sense that their impending new life will hold the answers they are searching for and know what they're about to do is for the best. But once you get down here, your mind just can't process that knowledge anymore and you forget the answers. And it takes a whole other lifetime to learn what you lost along the way."

She gestured about her, her musing continuing on, only half speaking to Saphira anymore. "What are we all waiting for? The end of it all?" Violet eyes settled upon the slumbering form of Eragon and then flickered back toward the two eggs. "Or perhaps the rekindling of the great fire that was once dragon-kind, with a worthy King dragon to guide a whole new generation of our race to a bright new tomorrow. To be free of the troubles and darkness that had burdened us since the treachery of just one envious and wronged traitor."

_**Crack!**_

Amongst the silence that had fallen between human and dragons, the normally unremarkable sound was deafening. Saphira and Elva glanced wildly about in confusion, while Eragon awoke with a drowsy grunt. Three pairs of eyes simultaneously became riveted down at one of the two dragon's eggs, which was beginning to shudder and dislodge flecks of shell violently. Galvanized on by his brother, the dormant dragon within the other egg cheeped in response and began to chip his own long way to freedom.

In chorus, all four separate voices spoke the unbelievable statement that was on all four of their minds.

_The-_

_-eggs_

"-are"

_-HATCHING! _Eridor finished in a roar. _My sons are hatching!_

Stunned, they all watched the miracle that was occurring just beneath their astonished noses.

For the first time in over a century, wild dragons were truly being hatched into the world.

* * *

Elsewhere in the Varden's camp, a certain curly-haired and hazel-eyed witch was hard at work on another potentially toxic brew of some unknown substance she had decided to create on a mere bored whim. A familiar shock of electricity running down her spine like a lightning bolt, she dropped an empty glass vile to the floor where it shattered. Uncaring of the mess, Angela's head cocked sharply to one side, as if listening to something no one else could hear.

For the briefest of moments, her hazel eyes flashed emerald green and a hoarse chorus of voices whispered prophecy into her ears. Glimpsing a large light green blob out of the corner of her eye before the feeling abandoned her, the next thing Angela knew she was on the floor amongst the shards of glass. Several of the sharp fragments had punctured her vulnerable flesh, releasing spurts of scarlet on the ground. But it was the ache that bothered her, the familiar rush of power that had entered her body and departed too quickly. The void it left behind was painful, a harsh reminder that she was restricted to such a fragile and fleeting human body, caught off from the energies chosen dragons could receive so well.

But the knowledge Anea had given her was precious, the first sign and the beginning of the metaphorical end. Smiling now, Angela muttered a quick healing spell and began to clean up the broken glass.

"The first call's been sounded. But the time for the second is far off. Can my esteemed ruler last until then?"

For once, Angela believed Eragon could last and not get himself maimed or drag himself to the brink of death or truly killed. Thickheaded as the senseless hatchling was, he had proper guidance this time around. King Eridor, for one. Not to mention the two precious blessings those little hatchlings would turn out to be. But, of course, the she-dragon would turn out to be his saving grace. It was she who had started him out on his journey in the first place, and she would be there alongside him when their destiny was met. If only they could see how much they would one day mean to the other.

As Angela cleaned up the mess, she made plans to go and congratulate the new father (Eridor) and the foster parents (or whatever Eragon and Saphira were to Caradoc and Trinnean) once everything had settled down for all of them. Oh, and give Elva _another _harsh reprimand about being so self-loathing. Not only had she managed to alienate Greta, the patient crone that had been there for her through her entire ordeal, but the reborn she-dragon was dangerously close to pushing herself to death by sheer exhaustion.

_Good thing those eggs chose to hatch when they did, _she thought to herself. _Eridor has a distraction from running Alagaesia's last hope into the ground and a chance to come to terms with his unchangeable predicament. Saphira gets the opportunity to learn the vast patience that she will soon require. Elva gets some optimism and socialization crammed down her throat. And Eragon will get to learn about true leadership and responsibility. Hopefully everyone involved will get the mental maturation they need from Trinnean and Caradoc. It looks like everything is now out my hands and Anea's meddlesome claws._

...Then again, frequent prayers to her ancestors wouldn't hurt. Gods knew Eragon would need all the help when he at last was ready for his impending Trial. Mate or no mate, hatchlings or no hatchlings, he would _have _to be deemed worthy of the metaphorical crown by Eridor and his predecessors and receive all the responsibilities and powers he was entitled to as King of the wild dragons.

Or Angela could kiss her plans of a peaceful retirement from the 'messenger of fate' business goodbye forever.

**Next chapter: Trinnean and Caradoc hatch. But why does their daddy have two minds and do they consider the strange she-dragon a mommy or an aunt? And you thought your family was confusing. Also, more on their crazy uncle Jarshan and Thorn's attempts to unravel the mystery... so long as he doesn't get burned in the process.**

**1. I believe in _Brisingr _that the blind soldier-guy with the weird powers was able to 'see' souls. Naturally, he found Thorn (and possibly Murtagh) to be brimming with Eldunari-spirits. My theory? Galbatorix implanted Thorn with a couple of them to strengthen his powers, which also sped up his growth. Murtagh doesn't get any Eldunarya, as not only is his body too small to contain good-sized ones, but Galbatorix knows that he is rebellious and clever, and has a good chance of freeing himself from forced servitude. Which is why the smart old fart put only Eldunarya in the obedient little dragon he has owned for years and is almost powerless to escape his service. But Murtagh can access the Eldunarya within Thorn and draw energy like that, much like how Eragon could with Saphira.**

**2. Thorn is capable of contacting and conversing with his five Eldunarya. Of course, they'll all prefer to ignore the servant of the madman that put them in this predicament. On that train of thought, Jadine does serve a purpose. She's the only of Thorn's souls that plays an important role in the story. (And doesn't anyone thinks it's suspicious about how much she knows about Jarshan? Maybe means they were pretty close at one point in their lives.... coughnotcoughmatescough)**

**3. Jarshan was able to escape death, which means he is capable of some powerful magic Thorn would like to learn. After all, if one can return from death itself, why can't he learn similar tricks to break his oaths to Galbatorix without killing himself in the process/or coming back to life if he did so. Obviously, neither Thorn nor Murtagh knew that Jarshan was reborn as a human boy or ripped himself out of that predicament with Galby's assistance.**

**4. Why have the Varden not moved on with their lives? 'Cause all plans of offense are pretty much useless since their ace in the hole got turned into a dragon with no idea how to use his new powers. So Nasuada and Blodgharm are postponing such plans until they devise new ones that work to their advantage. That means waiting around on the Burning Plains for just a _tiny _bit longer.**


	22. Act II: Chapter 9: Hatching

**Um.. sorry for the long wait, everyone. Real life worries and focus on other stories prevented me from finishing this sooner. Hopefully the next chapter will come sooner considering that school for me will be ending in a few weeks...**

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _does not belong to me. All original material does. End of story.**

Blood literally rushing with anxiety and excitement, Eragon was unsure of how to handle himself at that moment. His paternal instincts urged him to take to the heavens and loudly declare the coming of new life. His worry wanted to help the two young dragons out of their cumbersome shells. The majority that was his usual self wanted to gape in disbelief, unable to comprehend the impossible miracle that was occurring before his very eyes. Witnessing one dragon hatching in eternity was amazing. Being there to see _two _do so at the same time? It brought a chaotic maelstrom of bewildering emotions he had not the foggiest idea how to sort out.

Thankfully, Eridor's influence was strong enough for Eragon to maintain his dignity. The white dragon gazed down at the peeping and vibrating little eggs, two souls peering out from one set of eyes. Instinct dictated that he merely observe this important trial. Hatching on ones own power was the first rite of passage for an independent wild dragon, and Caradoc and Trinnean would do so without the intervention of their guardians.

"Amazing," Elva muttered disbelievingly. Her violet eyes glittered with a combination of pride and longing, her nostalgia for her own mate and broods obvious. "They were dormant for so long I'd thought they remain so until the warring was over and done with. I misjudged the temerity of your line once again, Eridor."

_Does it matter at the moment? I care more for the miracle itself than the reasoning behind it. _Snout almost pressing against the eggshells, Saphira thrummed deeply in her chest. The low sound was a reflexive call to a mother beckoning her young ones to hurry into the world. Eragon shivered at the sound, idly thinking how skillfully she had assumed this unorthodox role as the surrogate parent of her past life's children. The she-dragon was a natural at this.

Eridor didn't bother to contribute to the conversation. His concentration was entirely devoted to his two sons. Affectionate and stoic at the same time, he brushed encouragingly against their minds, spurring the younglings onward without coddling them the entire way. Caradoc peeped once again and rattled desperately in his prison, his thirst for freedom galvanized by the tempting presence of his father.

The little dragon's untried body must have possessed some well of inner strength, for one last assault against the confining shell caused the entire thing to shatter into pale shards. Laying in the middle of the mess was a tiny hatchling, sprawled unceremoniously on the ground. Exhausted from its laborious ordeal, his mouth was wide open as he panted heavily.

Like the color of his eggshell, Caradoc was the exact same light blue shade. His appearance strongly reminded Eragon of Saphira when he had first laid eyes upon her, but upon closer inspecting the similarities were not that striking. The miniature spines that ran down his back and spikes that wreathed his face were barely white nubs that would become more prominent with age. Caradoc's build was small and chubby with baby fat he would one day shed, but even his pudgy frame as too small for the oversized wings that drooped lifelessly from his shoulders.

_Odd, _Eragon remarked when he spotted Caradoc's head. As a hatchling Saphira's two horns were just visible. This particular youth already sported one pair of horns, but there was a barely noticeable bump right behind them that suggested another pair would soon spring up. _I figured he'd have all of his adult features at least somewhat visible by now._

Scoffing at this, Eridor's voice was strangely absent of the snarky undertone that almost always accompanied it. Radiating only overwhelming happiness and a burning pride at his offspring, all ill feelings he usually harbored seemed to have dissipated like storm clouds before a brilliant sun. _Nonsense. My son descends from the noble line of King wild dragons. Just like his father he'll have to earn his crown. Won't you, my boy?_

Hearing the voice he distinctly recognized as belonging to his father, Caradoc raised his head questioningly. His eyes blinked open, revealing two sapphire irises that made Elva inhale sharply in response. Looking eagerly about for Eridor, the hatchling's gaze came to rest on the white shape of Eragon. Stumbling to his paws for the first time with great difficulty, the newborn tottered over on fresh legs as fast he possibly could, miraculously never crashing during the precarious action.

All four elder dragons (who were all true ones, if only in soul) exchanged nervous glances as a terrible realization suddenly dawned upon all of them simultaneously. What should have been an event of great rejoice was tainted by fear. Fear that Caradoc and his hatching brother would look up on their unlikely guardians and reject them. Saphira for not being their true mother. Eridor for being only a bodiless entity completely dependent upon Eragon for his continued survival. And Eragon for being there in the flesh while their rightful father was a literal prisoner inside his mind.

Finally reaching Eragon after a troublesome time upon wobbly legs, Caradoc cocked his head curiously and gazed up at his elder with puzzled eyes. The newborn male's undeveloped consciousness brushed against the double-entity that resided within one vessel, bewildered as two why he could sense four dragons and see only two ones and a strange pale creature.

Taking the delicate situation into his own paws, Eragon lowered his head until his snout was only inches away from Caradoc's. _Do not be alarmed, little one, _he murmured soothingly. _Your father is still here, if only in spirit. Reach out with your mind, for he is connected to my own. _

Caradoc obediently complied, Eridor tentatively enveloped his son in a full mental embrace, revealing all of the unconditional love he had for his little child. Proved he was unmistakably the same person that had frequently spoken to the unhatched dragon all those decades ago.

Perhaps it was only a child's innocence that made him naive to the stark reality that such an occurrence went against nature's unbreakable laws of death and two souls residing in the same body, but Caradoc's young mind was somehow able to comprehend this strange state of being and accepted it without the slightest hesitation or disgust.

Chirping in consent, Caradoc whirled unsteadily about and then frolicked over to Saphira. Eragon stared after the dusky blue hatchling, utterly astonished at what had just happened.

_So... he accepts you as his true and loving father, but what does make me? A sort of second paternal figure, or the unwelcome spirit taking up the body you could be residing truly in?_

Had this not been a day celebrating the coming of new life to a dying race and the true reunion between a lonely father and the twin sons he had missed for over a century, Eridor would have surely berated him for his stupidity and launched into one of his scathing lectures. Now the former King of the wild dragons merely chuckled in bemusement. Aye, Eragon could get used to this new mellow and patient (if still uninvited) house-guest.

_To Caradoc, he sees you as a much older brother that remained behind from a previous clutch to help look after him and his nest-mates. Or maybe an uncle. Never as a father, though, and thank the ancestors for that. Imagining how you will act around your true offspring and what habits they will learn from you is a horror I have no desire to mull over._

Saphira patiently underwent the same sort of examination by Caradoc, bemused by his personality. He also accepted that this unfamiliar sapphire she-dragon was not his mother, and so dubbed her an 'aunt' or possibly an 'older sister.' And seemed unfazed by the unsettling absence of Safiri. Thankfully, in his childish ignorance he didn't believe her gone forever and would not reach such a sobering realization until a much later date.

What Caradoc considered Elva? Eragon hadn't the slightest idea. The little hatchling had only spared a momentary inspection of the human girl. He seemed mildly intrigued, like a child interested in a strange species of bug he'd never glimpsed before. Because Caradoc had never displayed any signs of displeasure toward Elva, Eragon assumed she had similarly been accepted as a family member of some sort, albeit an odd-looking one.

While Caradoc had been impressively swift in both his hatching time and into plunging into introductions with his unusual family, his twin brother was a bit of a late bloomer. Trinnean, who had only been spurred into awakening by his sibling in the first place, seemed unsure about entering the world. His egg rattled only occasionally, peeping uncertainly as if debating whether to remain inside his shell or not.

Sensing this, Caradoc staggered over to Trinnean's egg, squealing in a deafening pitch Eragon would have never thought possible of a dragon his tender age. Putting his snout right against the shell, the hatchling continued to make a persevering racket, batting against the confine's of the maddening barrier that separated him from his twin.

Puzzled by the unanticipated frenzy, Saphira hovered in the background. She moved as if to swoop down and drag Caradoc off the egg, but hesitated as if thinking better of the decision. Instead, she glanced imploringly at Eridor. _What do you propose we do? You're the one that insists his children hatch only by their own munition but I don't want to risk alienating my self-proclaimed nephew this early if I forcibly drag him away._

By now he was incredibly sensitive to Eridor's subtle fluctuation of emotions, and Eragon was easily able to discern that not even the wise former King of the dragons knew how to proceed. For all the numerous offspring he had sired with Safiri and had helped to hatch, never in his entire span as a father and an older brother had he ever encountered such behavior. Eggs hatched when their nest-mates did. Or they didn't. _Never _had a hatchling been so persistent that a sibling should enter the world right alongside him.

_Let them fight it out, _Eridor answered swiftly, no doubt conceiving the idea out of thin air. Eragon rolled his eyes at the statement, exasperated by the former King's predictable split-second decision making. _Trinnean wants to wait. Caradoc has no patience for it. It is a battle of wills that will determine their relationship will develop over the course of their lives. Create a familial hierarchy now and avoid futile arguments later on._

Groaning, Eragon could help but ask, _Do you always use such judgment with your young and impressionable hatchlings?_

_Oh, aye. _By Eridor's blithe tone, no other answer had been even considered and was honestly stunned by such a question. _My father Vanilor raised his children in such a matter, as did all the forefathers before him. I followed the same philosophy with all of my young ones. All the direct relatives will one day be squabbling over the King's throne when the time comes, and squabbling is whittled down when only the strongest know when to challenge others for the coveted position. Better to allow all those negative feelings out in a harmless game then to allow it to simmer and twist into something far more dangerous down the line._

Before Eragon could voice the question that had instantly jumped to his mind at those final ominous words, Elva interrupted with a hoarse cackle of her own. Violet eyes glittering in fond reminiscence, she leaned dreamily back, lost in memories of happier days.

"Honestly, he speaks the truth. Adopted as I was, my fellow nestmates unanimously decided I was to be the victim of their games the moment Safiri arrived home with me." She smirked unnervingly. "They prudently learned otherwise when they discovered I had been the dominant one among my own siblings, and for good reason."

With the conversation wrapped up, once again all four elders turned to observe Caradoc's efforts to force his twin brother into hatching. Remarkably, his unyielding persistence seemed to be making actual progress. Trinnean was stirring frantically within his captivity, peeping grouchily as his irritating nestmate continued to pester him. It seemed to Trinnean it would be worth it to hatch if only to silence that obnoxious Caradoc.

Together, the two brothers labored to free Trinnean. The imprisoned one worked from within, writhing about and shoving his weight against the walls of the dark wall that blocked him off from the light and his sibling. Caradoc gouged at the invulnerable eggshell with soft claws, gnawing at it simultaneously with equally impotent fangs.

_**Crack.**_

Definitively, the egg crumbled into shards as both brothers mustered up the last of their strength into a final assault against it. In a shower of sky blue shards, two hatchlings tumbled away from the chaos they had created, landing in a tangled heap. There they remained until they began to struggle viciously to free themselves, snapping and kicking at the brother they were ensnared by. Growing tired of the quarrel, Saphira intervened, seizing Caradoc by the scruff of his neck and raising him into the air.

Surprised by being so unceremoniously snatched and ascended so that his paws no longer touched solid ground, the hatchling began to panic. That is, until the hormones triggered by the grabbing of the scruff were released into his body, instantly relaxing him. Falling limp, Caradoc dangled docilely from Saphira's gentle jaws, like a kitten being carried by a mother cat.

Free of his brotherly burden, Trinnean shook his head dazedly and did his best to regain his bearings. He was the splitting image of his brother Caradoc, right down to the ungainly head he would have to grow into. Except for one significant difference: His eyes were a brilliant green instead of being sapphire like his twin's. And not just any plain old boring shade of emerald green, mind you, but one so intense it seemed as if a green flame burned inside his soul.

Rising to his paws, Trinnean glanced about and came to the same perplexing findings Caradoc had. Timidly, he ventured forward to the strange individuals surrounding him to investigate. Confirmed that Eridor was his father and present in mind if not physically. Deemed Eragon and Saphira to be either elder siblings or an aunt and an uncle. And gave Elva a wide berth when she flashed him that endearing sharp little smile of hers.

Chuckling in bemusement at this, Elva stood up. "He'll come around to Auntie Elva. Just give him time to get used to being around humans. They're people he'll be exposed to his entire life."

Allowing Caradoc to once again touch down on the comforting earth, Saphira glanced questioningly at the cursed girl. _Where you think you're going? Two wild dragons choose to hatch right in front of us and you decide to wander off just moments after their entrance?_

She simply shrugged as a response. "Those hatchlings are not mine by blood, nor are they the sons I created during any past lives of mine with a certain she-dragon here." Seeing Eragon shift in embarrassment at this and Saphira growl slightly in annoyance, she laughed again. "Besides, I have business elsewhere. Alerting the nobles of the rebellion to the hatching of the eggs you rescued, for one thing. And to make sure those darling rascals get nourishment before they begin to bawl their eyes out."

Flashing her companions a smile of the utmost deviousness, Elva skipped off in a parody of an innocent young girl. While the two hatchlings stared wonderingly after her, Eragon shuddered and merely shook his head.

_Why do I have the feeling she has some ulterior motive behind her actions?_

_For once, she has nothing of the sort, _Eridor answered blithely. _Elva merely had the intelligence to avoid the coming disaster. My children are always tough to handle when they're young. Especially boisterous males that have the unwavering energy of their mother combined with the infuriating stubbornness of their father. I expect none of us will be getting through their childhood unscathed._

Saphira scoffed at the melodramatics. She was gently licking off Trinnean's back, removing the dust that had gathered to his scales during his chaotic hatching. _Somehow I will not be surprised if Caradoc turns out a thousand times worse than you, Eragon. At least you had a good head attached to your shoulders when you were younger. But Trinnean? I sense he shall have the wisdom to avoid any confrontation with his brother._

At that moment the twins glanced at each other, and mutually decided they no longer liked having their respective sibling so uncomfortably close. Without warning, they lunged, once again vanishing in a writing heap of scales and oversized wings.

Sighing, Eragon bent his head down into the fray, breaking up the argument with a warning growl. Stunned by the new and scary sound, the brothers darted away to seek protection from the she-dragon they now deemed their aunt. The white dragon groaned, wondering just what he had gotten himself into.

Raising one young she-dragon that had chosen to hatch for him was one thing. Managing two bothersome twin males with a nagging parent in his head and a she-dragon with a notoriously short temper? A whole different game he wasn't really sure he wanted to partake in. Huh. As if he'd ever had a choice.

_I sense a pattern beginning to develop here, _was his half-humorous and half-hopeless response. _I'm going to be the guardian the hatchlings will completely disregard in their never-ending quest to spread further chaos. They'll listen to you though. You just have that commanding demeanor._

Really, after how such senseless choices of words seemed to drag him into further trouble many painful times, Eragon supposed he would've learned by now to be careful before he decided to speak. But this seemed to be the one thing his mind was unable to absorb, and so Eridor rewarded his host with a mental cuff for his efforts.

_Fool! _the entity inside of his mind hissed through their private internal connection. _She-dragons, especially the wild ones, were respected and feared by even males for a reason. Many others far more intelligent than you spent the night out in the freezing cold if they unintentionally said the wrong thing to their mates._

Again, that familiar wave of embarrassment and frustration broiled up inside of Eragon at Eridor's choice of words. Feeling like his white scales had turned completely scarlet, the younger dragon snorted vehemently. _She's not my mate! Our relationship is far from romantic and you have no proof to justify such outrageous claims-_

_You're speaking to the completely separate soul that, regrettably, has to cling to your own mind and body if he wishes to remain in existence. Thus I am connected to the emotional turmoil you try so hard to conceal. _Eridor snorted mentally. _Young ones. Always trying to deny the painfully obvious. Platonic your relationship may be at the surface, but just beneath that is the glorious truth you hide even from yourself-_

Resentment reared again like an agitated snake, and Eragon could barely contain his bellow of rage. After all of this effort to save himself and Saphira from the irresistible hormones mating season drudged up, had all of that been for naught? They had flown all the way to Vroengard in search of those eggs, as supposedly only the presence of young could stave off the mindless instincts to reproduce. Eragon had almost _died _in those gods-forsaken tunnels inhabited by those sea serpents. Hell, he'd almost lost his soul when he feared Saphira doomed during that fight with Thalassa.

Yet despite all of that hardship and agony to outdo nature's sinister design, Eragon had failed. Those blasted instincts simmered just beneath his surface emotions. Just waiting to be unleashed when his composure finally cracked...

_Melodramatic hatchling, _Eridor remarked scoldingly. _Bonds between mates are not merely formed out of hormonal desires and the overwhelming urge to procreate and contribute to the next generation. There are prior attachments and emotions taken into consideration. Bitter enemies will not suddenly become mated when the season reaches its peak, nor will the single she-dragon pursue the unknown bachelor when there are eligible males she holds closer to her heart. These feelings for Saphira existed long before mating season's beginning, and will develop into something more without nature's meddlesome intervention._

Slamming up his barriers, Eragon effectively sealed himself off from his uninvited house-guest. Refusing to lower his barriers, he snorted audibly and withdrew from his inner mind.

Previously preoccupied to the cowering hatchlings that had demanded her attention, Saphira raised her head up curiously at his uncharacteristic actions. She sensed something was wrong, but was not connected enough to view the object of her companion's distress. _Is something troubling you, Eragon? _she ventured worriedly.

Pointedly ignoring Eridor's metal prod, the white male shook his head firmly. _Nothing's wrong, Saphira. _Blue eyes softening, he lowered his head to gaze directly into the eyes of his newest chargers. _Can the same thing be said for the both of you, little ones?_

Trinnean and Caradoc exchanged a considering glance, their simple but intelligent thoughts flowing easily between them. Their shared answer was reached unanimously. Moving as one, the twin dragons screeched simultaneously and pounced on the hapless older male. Reeling back in surprise, Eragon fell onto his belly with the young hatchlings clinging firmly to his horns, their soft claws gripping firmly to his facial scales. Thrumming in amusement, Saphira hung back to watch while Eridor goaded his mischievous offspring onward to victory.

So the tense moment dissolved into playful antics as the first real bonding experience between the hatchlings and their unconventional guardians proceeded. Yet underneath that swell of good feelings simmer the earlier emotional turmoil. Like water waiting for its imprisoning ice to melt so it could once again unleash its powerful torrent, Eragon was painfully aware of the same storm that was waiting for him.

Shoving aside his grim thoughts and his confusing feelings for Saphira, Eragon concentrated solely upon his game and forgot all prior woes.

* * *

Had Jarshan still not been recovering from his exhausting battle with that pitiful boy for control of his body and soul, his obnoxious red curse would have long ago been incinerated. Forget Galbatorix's unreasonable orders concerning Thorn. No overgrown _hatchling _was going to interfere with Jarshan's peace. But all the recuperating gray dragon had the energy to do was halfheartedly growl warningly at the literal thorn in his side.

Yet he had to admire the hatchling's persistence. Long periods of silence had not dampened his curiosity. Thorn's pestering was as relentless as ever.

_Your silence doesn't intimidate me. _Remaining his respectful distance away from his natural superior, the younger male's crimson eyes burned defiantly. _I want the full story on how you returned from the dead. Not even my master can resurrect the diseased. What power do you have that makes you so great?_

Gray eyes flaring at the obvious slight on Thorn's side, Jarshan growled indignantly. _How many times must I tell you, senseless lizard? I am the rightful successor of my brother Eridor, and possess all of the legendary abilities of the Kings past. Combine that power with the sheer strength of my will and not even death itself could imprison me._

_You are no King! _Heart trembling with astonishment and rage, the stone-gray dragon's head rose from his paws with a dangerous rumble. _Neither is that white dragon that scarred me_, he continued in a quieter voice. _According to the souls of the dragons that shelter within me, there is no longer a true ruler of the wild dragons. There hasn't been one since Eridor's death._

Recalling the mention of the five Eldunarya imprisoned within Thorn, Jarshan couldn't contain his shudder of revulsion. Galbatorix took extreme measures against his foes, aye, but holding the souls of enemy dragons captive so they couldn't move on to the afterlife and eventual rebirth? It was such an unthinkable concept he dared not linger upon it for long. Biting back the food that threatened to be involuntarily disgorged from his stomach by his horrified disgust, Jarshan snorted.

_Those parasites that cling to your mind for their continued existence are about as reliable as a pair of broken wings. Their mortal lives ended at last a century ago and their knowledge is dreadfully out of date. _He snarled warningly. _Do you truly want to see the secrets of the next world and how to return to life, little hatchling? I will be happy to show you the way._

Thorn vehemently shook his head and withdrew his mind from his involuntary roommate's, falling silent as he padded to the opposite end of the dragon-hold. Jarshan averted his gaze from the pathetic male, once again returning to his earlier brooding.

Tactless as Thorn had been, he had been correct: Jarshan was still King only in his claim. He had yet to undergo the King's Trial in this life or his past one. (Between supporting Galbatorix's war efforts and hunting down the traitor dragons there had never been time for that sacred test.) In order to gain his full powers and the respect a dragon of his position would wield, he would have to pass that mysterious Trial to prove his dedication.

But from the continued unresponsiveness of his mutinous wings, traveling to the ancient location to perform the King's Trial was still beyond him. Jarshan was still becoming reacquainted with his body; and he wouldn't dare fly before he thought himself ready, not for Aiedail the First King himself. His first flight in decades would not have the entire Fortress and his master Galbatorix seeing him as graceless as a novice hatchling. No. He would until his wings were suitably strong before he began his journey.

Resting his head on his paws, Jarshan once again summoned up his patience and drifted off for another short doze. Obeying his master's orders. Vengeance on Eridor. Even becoming a true and recognized King of the wild dragons could wait for a little while longer.

As his mind was once again engulfed by peaceful blackness, the stone-scaled dragon did his best to ignore the five minds connected to Thorn's that brushed lightly against his own. Including that one presence that felt vaguely and uncomfortably familiar.

_Her spirit rests safely amongst the stars, _he sternly told himself. _You yourself took personal care to __make sure they weren't eternally enslaved. Galbatorix swore an oath he would leave them to rest in peace. It is not __**her.**_

Swallowing that lingering doubt, Jarshan at last drifted away into unconsciousness. However, for the first time since his second birth, his slumber was not dreamless. Fractured memories of his long ago past, the same nightmares that had tormented him during his dormancy of Jarsha, found their way back to plague him once more.

**Finally, after months of wait... We get onto the real beginnings of an ExS relationship. Everyone thank the adorable little hatchlings for finally breaking the ice between these two... And Eridor for being so in-your-face about the denial issues. -sighs melodramatically- Ah, young love.**

**Next chapter: Things begin to get rolling. Eragon may be in denial, but Saphira isn't afraid to take the initiative. Elva gets stuck with babysitting. Arya and Blodgharm? Let's just say their break-up was not pretty and old feelings of love and bitterness are abound. **

**1. For once, nothing extra to add- except more words to the count!**


	23. Act II: Chapter 10: Resolved

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _does not belong to me, for Chris Paolini would never even dream of publishing what I have just written down below :D. All original material, especially what Paolini would never dream of publish (ExS material in this story), belongs to me.**

**My apologies for updating this story so late. Inspiration for this story totally left me and I really couldn't bear just cranking out a crappy, half-hearted chapter in place of a good one. Here, this one has both adorable, mischievous dragon babies _and _ship-tease! Enjoy :D Also, listen to _Dulaman _by Celtic Woman for this chapter. It's the lighthearted musical brilliance I needed to get this thing finished, and its translated lyrics even kinda match what's going on down below.**

Elva was far from being the typical clueless young aunt that had been stuck with her sister's young children and was helpless of how to treat them. During her years as an actual living and breathing she-dragon she had successfully raised several broods of her own. To her knowledge, all of her surviving offspring had grown to become respectable adults. None had turned out to be those rootless and greedy rogues that had been the shame of the dragon race.

Unfortunately, Elva no longer had many of her earlier advantages. She did not tower over these hatchlings, or have a deep growl or flames to scare them into behaving. There was no loyal mate to enforce her decisions. Oh, and Caradoc and Trinnean were only several days old and had already developed a _hostile _rivalry. Such the perfect combination for chaos that would threaten to overwhelm even her.

"No, Caradoc. That is _not _edible."

Ineffectively baring her flat teeth in a snarl of aggravation, Elva dove for the offending hatchling. The cunning little bugger had managed to escape her vigilant gaze and had gotten his jaws around a decent sized rock. Naturally Caradoc had wanted to _eat_ the blasted thing and undoubtedly choke on it. So with Eragon and Saphira away under the pretense of hunting, the tremendous responsibility to keep some of the world's last dragons from accidentally killing themselves had been passed onto a reluctant Elva.

Caradoc squealed in surprise when her arms closed in around his body in a tight embrace. Struggling bravely, his claws raked against her bare arms in a desperate attempt of escape. Elva refused to relinquish her hold on the writhing blue hatchling, carrying him off for all his noisy protests.

She counted herself still lucky. The brothers were still only a few days old. Though they were growing with the typical draconic swiftness, they were still small enough to be handled even by a skinny young human girl. Caradoc's claws and teeth had not yet hardened enough to leave her more than superficial scratches. For all of his exploration, Trinnean still hadn't realized his own limp wings could one day be used for actual _flight. _Thankfully the hatchlings were not even close to approaching mental speech. Elva wasn't ready to have their whining hurt both her ears and her mind.

"You'll get vengeance soon enough, little hatchling," Elva firmly told her struggling captive. "Auntie Elva will soon be dwarfed by overgrown babies such as yourself. Then you can fly off and get on Uncle Eragon's nerves all you want. He won't even be able to fly away to escape your endless mischief."

Caradoc at last stopped squirming, falling limp in the girl's pale arms in resignation. His brilliant blue eyes stared forlornly back at the human encampment he had _almost _reached. If only the accursed, delicious rock hadn't been there to distract him from his ultimate mission!

Elva had been around hatchlings long enough to recognize that determined expression. "Don't even think about it," she deadpanned. "Not a single Varden soldier wants you back in camp after what you and Trinnean did to all that laundry. Now what are those poor men supposed to wear under their armor? They're all rubbed raw in places your Uncle Eragon would wince to think about thanks to you two!"

Still, Elva was unable to conceal her smug smirk at the thought that suddenly popped into her head. Not about that last comment. No, it made her nauseous to even imagine what those pathetic human males looked underneath their clothing even during their best days. She had recalled the very short time the Varden had spent with Eridor's darling sons before they had forever ruined their reputation in the eyes of humanity.

All of the rebellion had had been surprised and delighted to see the arrival of two adorable little hatchlings that bore remarkable resemblance to both Saphira and the 'King of the wild dragons.' Their numerous outlandish theories all centered around the main idea that Caradoc and Trinnean were somehow the secret children of the resident dragons.

Eragon would have turned bright scarlet if it had been possible. He surely had been driven mad after the numerous praise he had received from unwitting rebels for "helping to repopulate his dying race." Roran and the others who knew the truth were mysteriously cracking up in public for inexplicable reasons. People thought _they _were going insane. Saphira? Well, the she-dragon only exacerbated the situation by opening displaying affection for the white male in ways that made even dignified Lady Nasuada snigger behind her hands.

_Better for the Varden to assume the most probable explanation for Eridor's son than to suspect the real truth, _had been Saphira's somewhat mocking reply at Eragon's flustered confusion. Of course, Elva knew there was more to the sapphire she-dragon's actions than that flimsy answer. Only thickheaded males like Eragon would have been blind to the whole truth.

"Hm," Elva mused to her unwilling passenger. "If the last known dragon couple on earth were to procreate, how on earth would those offspring be related to you? Siblings, cousins, no blood connection at all? This all _so _complicates the future survival of the dragon race. You can't all mate with close relatives, you know."

Confused, Caradoc did the wise thing and only chirped in response.

The cursed girl sighed melodramatically."I think you're right, younger brother. There better be a previously undiscovered colony wild dragons sheltering out in some isolated mountain range somewhere, or else Alagaesia can kiss the dragons goodbye." Violet eyes suddenly flaring with irate fire, her head snapped in the direction of the hatchling she'd foolishly left unattended. "Trinnean, _no!"_

Startled by the reprimanding tone of voice usually only reserved for his mischievous brother, Trinnean wisely bolted off in the opposite direction. He still stubbornly held onto the very expensive-looking tunic he must have swiped out of some high-ranking nobleman's tent. Unceremoniously plopping Caradoc on the ground, Elva charged off after the impish little hatchling in hot pursuit.

Where Trinnean was smaller and able to weave around obstacles and throw crowds far better than Elva ever could, that advantage didn't count for anything when he had wandered off into the open plains. With his still-massive wings hindering him, it wasn't too hard for the little girl to tackle the pale blue dragon and send them both sprawling into the dirt. While Trinnean was stunned by the collision, Elva wasted no time in ripping the stolen tunic out of his mouth and examining it.

The ornate, luxurious tunic had been damaged beyond repair by Trinnean's gnashing fangs. Its brilliant emerald cloth had been soiled both by the red dust it had collected when it had fallen to the ground and by dragon drool. Elva chose to give the ruined tunic a respectful end, and promptly buried it in a location its furious owner would never uncover. Then the she-dragon in human skin stood up, still holding the squirming Trinnean firmly.

Violet eyes boring firmly into him, Elva released an instinctive growl that sounded impressive even in her current state. Trinnean stopped struggling, gaping at her with all the feared astonishment a dragon hatchling could convey.

_Mind your manners, little Trinnean, _she hissed reproachfully, _for I am still the one in charge here. This is your very last chance to stop behaving like one of those insufferable little dogs and start acting like the dignified dragon prince you truly are. Should another one of a nobleman's expensive tunics go missing, or the chickens are ever again released upon the camp, or if Caradoc somehow manages to pick up another one of your bad habits, I am going straight to your father. If you think Eragon is a push-over and Saphira adores you, King Eridor thinks quite differently. So behave, hatchling, or you shall discover the meaning of tough love._

Elva had reflexively responded mentally. It always came naturally to her, easier than true human speech. Using her mind she could cut straight to to the heart of the matter, conveying all of the strict and compelling feelings mere words could not. Behind her chastisements lurked very real promises of punishment, ones that impish hatchlings sensed and wisely heeded.

Trinnean was no exception. He too had felt the irate she-dragon that lurked beneath the girl's unimpressive exterior, and had woken Saphira up from enough of her naps to know the fury of a grouchy female. So he chirped obediently, still and meek in her arms as a kitten.

Elva smiled victoriously. "Good. Now let's go and find your brother. Saphira and stone-head will be back with your meal soon enough."

_Unless Saphira has finally decided to take the initiative, _the cursed girl remarked privately. _She and the overgrown hatchling have been dancing around their feelings for weeks now. Surely by now she realizes that the emotions she feels is more than the instinct to procreate. The presence of young hatchlings have curbed those desires, but that true flame still burns strongly. Eragon may still be in denial, but I doubt Saphira can remain patient for much longer..._

* * *

Saphira had come to terms with her new relationship with Eragon long, long ago. They retained the strong bond they had formed previously as dragon and Rider, but circumstances had changed once Eridor had asserted his influence over his host. Eragon was a dragon now (a handsome, strong, _eligible _dragon), and her undiscerning instincts recognized him as a potential mate. Both already had a prior bond, close knowledge of the other, and were the only damned dragons in the area.

The sapphire she-dragon had helped Eragon develop from the overgrown hatchling he had been upon first awakening from his transformation into a formidable force. He was able to fly _almost _as good as her now, could hunt for himself, and was receiving training from both herself and Eridor to turn him into a master fighter. In her eyes he had accomplished so much already, though he still had some ways to go before reaching his full potential, and had proved himself worthy upon first conquering Thorn and saving her from enslavement to Galbatorix.

With her emotions so perfectly clear, Saphira was swiftly becoming exasperated in Eragon's much slower progress. He was still in vehement denial of his emotions and was determined to keep them hidden from her. Though considering he shared his mind and body with a soul who happily betrayed his deepest secrets, Saphira had discovered Eragon's inner turmoil _ages _ago. Part of him still subconsciously clung to the last vestiges of his human life, though he had accepted a dragon lifestyle, had a dead King dragon residing inside of him, and was even _raising _two hatchlings.

Yet, Eragon refused to even consider becoming closer to a she-dragon.

Perhaps he wasn't rejecting the concept of mating and starting a family of his own, but rather just the idea of choosing _her. _Eragon had raised her from her infancy and had taught her how to speak and understand the world around her. Later on she had become the wise one of the pair due to her ancestral memories, and Eragon had confided into her his own problems and self doubts. Perhaps he had come to see her as some sort of surrogate parent, an alternative source of guidance and wisdom to replace the uncle and the mentor (Garrow and Brom) he had tragically lost so early in life.

Things had changed. Saphira saw Eragon as her equal on all levels. He was still in need of guidance, but so was she! Despite her deceiving composure, the sapphire-scaled she-dragon was still only a year old. Her own _personal _wisdom was lacking somewhat, and not even all the knowledge of her ancestors could compensate for all the long years she had yet to live and experience herself. _Both _she and him were young, and _both _she and him were trying to discover their roles in life.

Which is why, in her desperation to resolve the tension between her and Eragon, Saphira had turned to Eridor for advice. The two conspired against their oblivious companion, having lured him away from all else to finally make the blasted revelation dawn already!

_Oh, Eragon, _Eridor called out mildly.

The white male growled testily, fiery blue eyes still scanning the plains below for any sight of deer. _Aye? _he asked.

_I think it's high time we another lesson on the lifestyle of us wild dragons, _the dead King replied vaguely.

Eragon turned to the left to try searching in another direction, unaware that Saphira was purposefully slowing down in order to get behind him. _Can't it wait, Eridor? Your darling little devils have been whining for fresh meat all day. Nasuada will go into conniptions if we take any more livestock to feed them. So, it's either find that elusive herd of deer, or have Caradoc and Trinnean trying to eat rocks again._

Eridor snorted dismissively. _Prey in the Burning Plains has always been scarce. Or, at least it has been since the gases beneath the earth were ignited during that battle between the Shur'tugal and Forsworn that occurred shortly after my death. I should imagine that the two dragons who have been residing in this area for weeks have scattered any surviving deer populations to the four winds. Since we're going to return home empty-pawed and 'borrow' another one of the cows from the Varden... we might as well make a lesson out of this excursion._

Saphira had angled herself behind the unsuspecting silver-tinted male, rising higher into the air so she could strike from above. She had never attempted anything like this before (mainly because Glaedr had been a Rider's dragon unfamiliar with the wild kind of courtship, and had also never wanted to cause himself additional suffering by teaching such risky techniques to his then-infatuated young student.) But instinct guided Saphira, and the driving desire to claim her male was encouragement enough.

She was not one of those timid little human women willing to stand passively by and pine for their sweethearts. Saphira Brightscales would _not _lower herself into patiently waiting for her thickheaded male to realize her interest in him. Gods dammit, she was going to make herself be heard!

Furling her wings, the sapphire-scale female dove sharply, biting into Eragon's tail as she swooped past. With his roar of surprise echoing in his ears, Saphira again twisted up to meet him, snarling challengingly. Her snapping jaws barely missed his neck, and she rose for another strike she noticed that the mark she had left upon his white hide was beginning to bleed.

Her bites were not intended to cause lasting harm, but nor were they playful. She had deliberately bit down hard enough to draw blood, and would continue her 'attack' until the point had been driven across.

Meanwhile, Eridor continued to ramble calmly on with the air of a professor lecturing to a class of students. Utterly unaffected by the chaos and Eragon's pained roars and desperate questions, he merely said, _As you can see, wild females are willing to take the initiative in the courtship process. If a she-dragon isn't satisfied by her current party of suitors, or is seeking a male that has previously ignored her, she will force him to acknowledge her presence, and her interest in him. _

Eragon had long since abandoned trying to plead with Saphira and now only swerved to avoid her slashing claws and snapping jaws. Despite her aggression, she sensed his reluctance in harming her. Instead he only evaded her attacks, while doing nothing to strike back. _Then what should I do? _he desperately yelled.

_Give the she-dragon a damn response! _Eridor furiously bellowed back. _Just kick her away and reject her challenge if you can't take the heat! If you feel brave enough to risk the next effort, then quit hesitating and meet her!_

For the briefest of moments, Saphira stopped in her ruthless bombardment to hover mere feet away from Eragon. She coolly returned his pleading look, showing the decision was entirely up to him. Reject the offer, or have the tenacity to follow it through. Really, it wasn't that complicated!

Saphira honestly expected Eragon to just kick her away and end the game. Perhaps she had pressured into him into this too quickly. It was probably for the best if she just backed off for now and allowed him the time to realize the new depths of her emotions-

The sapphire she-dragon roared in astonishment and jumped the left, barely missing the jaws of her opponent. Blue eyes flaring, Eragon gave her a taunting, fanged grin. Tables now turned, it was he who recklessly pursued her through the sky, through the smoky clouds and sometimes so high they cleared the noxious fumes long enough to taste cold air untainted by the gasses broiling up from the desolate plains below.

_Why didn't you tell me your true feelings earlier? _Eragon demanded as he again lunged for her tail. _Then we could have avoided all of __**this.**_

Saphira returned the favor by clubbing him in the head with the spiked end of her tail. Not hard enough to bludgeon his brains out, but hard enough for the white dragon to stumble in midair. Using his incapacitation to her advantage, the she-dragon circled around him until Eragon was once again the one being chased.

_I gave you subtle hints about my change of heart **days **before we even found Prasavitri! Gods, I trusted you to have the ability to see my intentions. You were oblivious to my signs, and my patience ran thin. Your time to take the initiative ran out, stone-head._

Observing the wonderful chaos, Eridor chuckled, as if sadistically amused by the tensions that had finally snapped after weeks of rapidly increasing pressure. _You have acknowledged your admirer's presence, Eragon, _he commented evenly. _Now is the time to show Saphira you're worthy of her interest, and that she is worthy to be yours. Impress and stupefy the other, preferably without getting either getting us or her killed. It also tests your ability to gauge the other's actions and responses, and reflects how well you two can connect without the mating bond to strengthen your link. _

Eyes widening at this ominous words, Eragon swerved to the right just as a plume of blue fire streamed past him. Saphira was in hot pursuit. Twisting gracefully as a sea serpent in the water, Saphira slipped under him, flaring her wings as she rose up to intercept his path. Again she lashed teasingly out, testing him, goading him on.

Eragon decided to rise to the challenge.

* * *

He had just recovered from the fact that Saphira was _interested _in him and was determined enough to spit fire and nip at him until he got the point. Common sense (or what he _assumed _was his common sense) yelled at him to do the sane thing and end this twisted game once and for all. Something deeper, more meaningful than the instinct to find a mate urged him to step up. Perhaps those were the latent feelings Eridor had been constantly reminding him of.

When Saphira's head snaked in to bite at his neck again, Eragon finally took the initiative. Before she could realize what was happening, his own fangs met the scales of her serpentine neck. He was careful to only bite down hard enough to get the message across, and that that it did.

Saphira's blue eyes eyed him momentarily, wide with shock. He returned her astonished gaze, a playful light twinkling within the burning depths that rippled across their connection.

_My turn._

As Eragon reached down again, the sapphire-scaled female folded her wings and dropped like a stone, sinking through the clouds in an effort to evade him. Her surprise had morphed into satisfaction and joy, but the critical edge was still there. She was testing his capability as a flier and a fighter, after all.

He dove after her, unleashing a plume of searing hot blue fire as he did so. His flames were powerful enough to sear through another dragon's scales, to burn away the most powerful of enchantments. Certainly more than enough to seriously injure Saphira if she was not fast enough to evade them.

As if she would ever be that slow and blundering. Already able to hear the massive inferno building up inside of Eragon, the blue she-dragon twisted away, the light of his burning flames making her scales glitter like a treasure trove of sapphires. Saphira was then upon him again, a stream of her own fire spewing forth from her maw. Thus began a complicated dance of fang and fire that must have seemed entirely suicidal to the misunderstanding human spectators observing from below. Uncaring of the danger, both dragons continued twisting around the other in midair, lashing out whenever their partner ventured too close.

What lasted only minutes seemed an eternity to Eragon. To his mesmerized mind, it seemed as if he and Saphira had been playing their game since the dawn of time, neither willing to admit defeat. Eridor had either voluntarily silent or had been drowned out by the force of the sheer emotions the other dragons channeled. There was only the shimmer of her hide against the sunlight, the heat of the flames that danced along with them, the determined glitter of her blue eyes.

Then, reflexively, Eragon and Saphira reached out at the same time. Their paws, front and back, were firmly taken in the other's talons as their tails entwined. For a moment, their minds merged so perfectly together it was impossible to distinguish where one ended and the other began. Neither was in the position to continue flying, and it was hardly a surprise as the pair began their steep plummet to the desolate earth below.

Everyone watching below must have screamed out in the dismay, as it appeared to them the last mated pair of dragons had chosen to commit suicide together. Even the elves, who had real no comprehension of the alien and seemingly lethal courtship wild dragons practiced, were dubious as to whether two of the world's last dragons would separate in time to avoid splattering all over the Burning Plains.

The very real risk was lost upon Eragon. He had been entirely absorbed by the unity, the harmony, that he and Saphira now shared. Every single one of her emotions was now his own, and his hers. His very sight had blurred with his partner's, making his vision a confusing swirl of sapphire-blue and silvery-white.

Both were very reluctant to release the other after having discovered such perfect oneness. Never before had they accomplished such a merging before, a brief period where two different minds had achieved a unified state with two minds and bodies that moved as one.

However, the earth was quickly rising up to meet them, and Eragon wasn't about to allow death to claim either him or Saphira any time soon. Finally parting from the she-dragon, both managed to flare their wings and manage rough landings before crashing to their dooms. Eragon's mind reeled at the sudden separation, for though Saphira was still connected to him, it felt like she was leagues away. Every fiber of his heart and body ached for their unity to resume, to become one physically and mentally and to never let go of it again.

Apparently Saphira felt the same way, for they helplessly shared a moment of stupefied silence, unable to describe what they had just performed.

Eridor promptly took this opportunity to reinsert himself, sounding as mild as he had before. _**That **__was actually several flights in one. Saphira, you forced Eragon to acknowledge your interest at first. When he positively responded, it became a trial flight, in which you both tested out the endurance and ability of your partner. Again, both were used by other wild dragons to help weed out unworthy candidates and leave only the successful potential mates behind. _

Saphira snorted. _Then what in the seven hells was the last one?_

_As you both hopefully noticed, it wasn't the mating flight, _Eridor replied wryly. _It was a courtship flight, with both potential dragons showing genuine interest in the other. You were gauging how well you two work together, how perfectly your minds are able to unite. By this period, a dragon had narrowed his or her options down to only two or three, and was now just trying to select the partner they felt best with._

_At least we got our... confusion cleared up, _Eragon stated lamely.

_And some sexual tension resolved, _Eridor concluded cheerfully. _On the bright side, both of you are well aware of how the other truly feels and isn't about to hide from their own emotions like a spineless coward. However, I would strongly recommend not progressing further than the courtship stage at the moment. It is still very much the Season of Mating, and the dwindling of the blind instinct to mate with the next mature dragon of the opposite gender does __**not **__change your bodies. Unless you want to wind up with hatchlings and a serious delay in your plan to topple the Empire, just wait until winter._

Both dragons exchanged a glance, unanimously agreeing with this one. Realization of romantic feelings with the other did not automatically mean they wanted to start a family of their own, especially when it was absolutely moronic to do it in these times.

_Of course, _Saphira answered simply.

Thinking about Eridor, Eragon's eyes narrowed in confusion. Why had his uninvited guest not reacted more strongly to his own roiling emotions? He was always affected by every single strong wave of anger or sadness from him. Was the same concept also true for overwhelmingly positive emotions?

The disembodied spirit inside his head sensed this unspoken question and suddenly withdrew more into himself, sealing every single last one of his thoughts and feelings behind a massive barrier Eragon could not penetrate. Eridor allowed just enough open room to communicate with his host, impassive as a rock. His response was one expected from a dragon wizened by death, and one who had been an eloquent, dignified King in life:

_Mind your own business, hatchling._

Eragon refrained from growling in frustration. He had long since figured out his past self resorted to insults and sarcasm whenever he felt threatened. Also, he had long since resigned himself to a lifetime of such comments, for Eridor would probably be calling him 'hatchling' or 'ignorant fool' long after he had several broods of his own.

_Saphira is Safiri reborn, and strongly resembles her, _he thought privately, obscuring his own thoughts from Eridor. _That courtship flight undoubtedly drudged up memories he'd rather forget. _

Flashing Saphira a fanged grin, Eragon again launched himself up in the air, challenging her a race back to camp. Trinnean and Caradoc were awaiting their return, and Elva must have already clawed out most of her hair off in frustration.

_Better get back there before she is completely bald, _she agreed, also spreading her wings and hurrying after him.

The tension between them had finally been resolved, and their relationship had progressed to the next step, whatever that may have been. Both Eragon and Saphira were confident in each other and in themselves, and ready for the next obstacle destiny was ready to throw at them. There were still two impish brothers to raise and a war to be fought.

_But at we would be able to face those problems together, _Eragon thought. _I hope..._

**Disclaimer: With sexual tension between our love interests solved and our missing princes found, the second act of this story is just about done. But there are still issues with Jarshan and Thorn, and a war against Galbatorix and his Empire to prepare for. The Varden just can't hide out in the Burning Plains forever, you know.**

**1. Saphira and Eragon are now officially a couple, but don't a mating flight for quite some time. Remember that she's still fertile, and while baby dragons are adorable, the rest of the world thinks the cuteness factor can wait until after the invincible dictator is dead :p**

**2. I promise to readers dreading it, there shall be no Eridor angst. That's what we have Thorn, Murtagh, and Jarshan for. He's accepted the fact that he's dead and Safiri isn't coming back (not to mention he doesn't even have his own freaking body!) But could there be something more than missing his dead mate? -glances around sneakily- Don't look at me, I just decide everything that will ever happen in this story.**

**3. For those interested: the courtship process goes: 1.)If the dragon you like is too damned stupid to figure it out, bite them until you get a response, or just go ahead with the second step if you have already resolved this issue 2.)Make sure the dragon is worth your interest, 'cause no girl needs a wuss unable to even hold his own against her 3.)Cue the courtship flight, which is the dragon's equivalence to grab-ass, but make sure you let go before you crash and die :D 4.)The mating flight usually occurs quite a while after the first courtship flight and after all other unworthy dragons have been weeded out. Go ahead and seal the deal, but remember that you're mating for life. Found out something about your guy after it? Too late, your souls are already bonded. 'Til death do you part, suckers!**


	24. Interlude II

**If you are a very loyal reader reading this update months after the last one, then know I have the attention span of a hyperactive parakeet in a cage full of bright and shiny toys. Whenever I tried to get back on track with this story, my muse would drag me away to somewhere else. And to one reader that asked if this story could be finished in time for the release of ****_Inheritance_****, I can honestly say I have no clue if I'm capable of finishing it in time. This story has at least two more acts to it, and I'm torn between homework and exams at the end of the school year. But then there's summer break to consider... It's possible for me to reach the dead-line, but I make no promises until later.**

**Disclaimer: ****_The Inheritance Cycle _****belongs to Chris Paolini. I own all original material. -holds up Trinnean and Caradoc- But Paolini wishes he owned the original material, like ****_these _****guys! -Trinnean and Caradoc begin attacking each other- Meh, or maybe not.**

Arya Drottningu's emerald-green eyes flashed wide open, before instantly narrowing in agitation as she realized who had disturbed the silent tranquility of her meditation. Blodgharm, in all of his blue-furred glory, stood in the entrance of her _private _tent. Master magician and swordsman he may have been, but not even he held the rank to so blatantly intrude upon his princess and future queen. Arya had officially _ordered _him to stay away the night she had cornered him on the return of her old carved lynx. His intentions had been perfectly clear, so she had made her wishes for the past to remain buried just as understandable.

"May I inquire about the reason for this interruption, Master _Blodgharm_?" Arya questioned coolly, using formal speech to get the meaning across. "I recall specifically ordering you to contact me only the in the matter of an urgent military or diplomatic matter."

Blodgharm huffed in barely contained exasperation, and Arya realized the gravity of the situation. His amber eyes glittered with anxiety, and his blue-black fur bristled like a cat that had just been doused with a bucket of cold water. "Pardon my rudeness, _your Majesty, _but I believe now is just such an occasion. We have just received a very heated message from Ceunon. Lady Nasuada desperately requires you to act as a mediator between her, King Orrin, and the contacting party."

"Ceunon?" The elf-women had already gracefully leaped to her feet, pushing past Blodgharm and hurrying over to Nasuada's pavilion. "How did the Black Hand ever manage to penetrate the scrying wards surrounding camp? Was King Galbatorix responsible? Gods forbid, was _he _the one who-"

Blodgharm silenced her with a look. "He known as Oromis of House Thrandurin, who is also known as _Osthato Chetowa_ and _Togira Ikonoka._"

Such flagrant violation of the ancient oaths of discretion made the normally dignified Arya choke on her own saliva, and she immediately wondered why her companion did not fall down dead for breaking such sacred vows, or how he was even capable of uttering the identity of the last Dragon Rider alive. (Murtagh and Galbatorix certainly didn't count. Considering the strange circumstances, Eragon _especially _didn't count.)

Arya didn't have the time she so desperately required to grab Blodgharm's neck and throttle the answers out of him. They were already making through way through a massive crowd of rebels that had gathered, the multitude swiftly parting to make way for the two elves. She could already see Eragon and Saphira's two forms towering over the rest, both of their heads bent down to look someone directly in the eye. Their young charges perched upon Saphira's head, cheeping excitedly to the other. At long last, Arya and Blodgharm reached the middle of the congregation, and passed the circle of magicians and armed soldiers that kept the throngs of overly curious and enthusiastic spectators back.

Very few people actually had the honor of seeing the lost legend that stared calmly up at them from the massive scrying pool that Trianna maintained. The Council of Elders and the rest of the Surdan nobles and generals had all been confined to the back. King Orrin himself listened in rapt awe, not trusting himself to speak without bursting out in incoherent babble. Angela and Elva stood by the paws of the dragons, perhaps serving as their mouthpieces, for mental messages couldn't cross over such long distances and were not transferred over between scrying mirrors. Nasuada was trying her best to look like the regal and composed ruler she truly was, clamping down on her surge of emotions the sight of a Rider thought long-dead drudged up.

"Greetings, my Lady," Arya offered, quickly exchanging the usual tedious formalities with all present before turning her gaze to the image of Oromis. "And hello again, Agretlam. May I ask what you are doing so far from the forests of Du Weldenvarden?"

Oromis looked every bit like a Rider of legend should have been. He was adorned in magnificent golden armor, one hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed blade. The other was affectionately pressed against the scaly shoulder of Glaedr. The ancient dragon took up most of the background, but his injured side was conveniently concealed by his Rider, hiding his stump of a limb from view. Both looked at the height of their prime, seemingly brimming with boundless energy and ready to take on Galbatorix and his black beast. But even from such a vast distance away, Arya could tell it was only an illusion. Exhaustion was just hidden beneath the pride in the elf's gray eyes.

"The time has finally come for the elves to bravely venture forth from their woodland stronghold, my Lady," Oromis responded politely. "Our forces have been amassing for the past few months. Soldiers have been recalled and their training in both the blade and in magic refreshed. Ceunon was the first strategic target on our campaign south. There were very few soldiers stationed there, and those that survived the battle pledged allegiance to our cause. Queen Islanzadi intends to send us to the sea to capture vital port cities and towns there before moving eastward into the heart of the Empire."

Nasuada's dark eyes remained hard. "The Varden should have been informed of this beforehand, Rider Oromis."

The elf's waved a dismissive hand. "My previous battles against the Forsworn a century prior left both Glaedr and I grievously weak, my Lady. We needed the necessary time to regain our strength and hone our abilities to their previous deadly efficiency. Our safety was not to be compromised before that time. Those amongst you that have traveled to Ellesmera knew of my existence, and were commanded to swear to unbreakable oaths of magic to conceal our identities until the time was ripe. I assure you, Lady Nasuada, that time has finally come."

Saphira growled, displeased she too had also been kept in the dark. _Ebrithil, you should have warned us beforehand of your intentions to launch an offensive assault against the Empire! Rebel forces here could have been amassed to attack Aroughs or another nearby Imperial city while you were busy waging war in the north. You have just cost us the element of surprise down here! _Angela relayed the message for her, her voice a damn near perfect imitation of the sapphire she-dragon's infuriated tone.

Oromis sighed as he faced his former student, not about to back down. "Since your first victory at the Burning Plains Queen Islanzadi has patiently awaited for _you _to finally launch open opposition for the first time since the formation of the Empire. You repulsed a second attack headed by Galbatorix's new Dragon Rider with minimal casualties. You also have a powerful new ally, in addition to the band of skilled magicians that was sent over." He inclined his head respectfully the dragon he did not know to be Eragon. The white male nodded back out of habit. "However, I assume you have finally begun to plan for one, for I do not see Eragon Shadeslayer among you."

"I have ordered Eragon to an assignment of the utmost secrecy," Nasuada replied smoothly. "He is unable to be in attendance. Details about his mission and our plans of attack against the Empire are similarly protected." She smiled thinly. "Regretfully, my oaths prohibit me from disclosing any information at this time."

_Rest assured, Rider Oromis, Eragon Shadeslayer will hear everything about this conversation, _Eragon added in hastily, shooting the dark-haired woman a look.

Eragon cared deeply for both his mentors, and had obviously intended for the message to be pleasant and nonthreatening. Elva did not agree. She spoke his words aloud in her cool, impertinent voice. Oromis himself looked mildly unnerved to be conversing with the young child he had known to be so grievously and accidentally cursed.

"We have been revising our plans," King Orrin interjected. Arya admired his self-control, for normally the young monarch would be bursting with countless questions. "Eragon Shadeslayer may be temporarily unable to join us on the battlefield, but we have two dragons and Master Blodgharm's party for assistance." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Theoretically, with our new numbers, it should be feasible to, say... capture Aroughs."

Gasps erupted from the flabbergasted crowd. Aroughs was a vital port city to the Empire. Its capture would mean Galbatorix would be without the large amounts of fish and wool brought in from the hilly Southern Isles. Perhaps it could even be a stepping stone into an offensive campaign. The human and dwarf voices would progress up north along the shore, taking other ports like Kuasta while the elves would advance south. They would converge on the prime target of Teirm, and then head straight for the Empire's heart, inevitably to Urubaen itself...

"Your idea has merit," Oromis replied carefully. Arya could see his mind whirling through the endless _possibilities_. "I shall have to bring it up to Queen Islanzadi."

Lady Nasuada nodded. "Of course, Rider Oromis." She turned expectantly toward her inferiors. It was more than enough to set off a frantic scramble of strategists and generals as they ran around like headless chickens to formulate a viable plan of attack. "Is that all you wished to discuss?"

"Honestly, my Lady, I primarily was seeking the new King of the wild dragons." Oromis again dipped his head respectfully. "Your mere presence is miracle enough for many of us, your Majesty. Would you be so generous so as to one day grant me an audience?" His gaze flickered up to the young hatchlings perched atop of Saphira's head. Trinnean seemed oblivious to the scrutiny, but Caradoc took it as a threat to his honor and squealed a challenge. "There is much to discuss."

_Indeed, _Eragon said neutrally, his blazing blue eyes unreadable to those who had not yet become accustomed to his draconic self. _When we can win territory from the Empire, and some peace, then will be the perfect time to bridge gaps between our people. _

_So, he is ready to take on responsibility for all of the wild dragons, however much many eventually come, _Arya reflected to herself, finding it very hard to compare the majestic snow-white dragon before her with the socially awkward and overly curious young Rider she had first known. _You have come very far, Eragon, from the troubled young man trying to shoulder the burden of rallying an entire jaded rebellion against tyranny. I only hope that you'll make it to fully live up to your incredible potential. _

Progress had already been made. Eridor hadn't protested his host's response, and perhaps Eragon was only the messenger for the other consciousness entwined with his own. Undoubtedly Oromis would be the first 'outsider' to know of Eragon's transformation into a dragon and of his ascension as king over its remaining wild population. Perhaps Oromis would even begin to tentatively spread the truth around the high-ranked elves, where the knowledge would slowly trickle down into the common classes. Perhaps, if it all went well in the slowly formulating campaign against the Empire, the _entire _masquerade would finally draw to a close.

But, like the hope of a liberated Alagaesia, the concept was still barely more than a distant dream.

* * *

Finally, the lingering lethargy that had been an unfortunate side-effect of his strenuous rebirth had dissipated. With his body having fully recovered, Jarshan had resolved himself to regain his former power. He had scaled countless walls around the fortress, digging his claws into the stone and forcing his quivering muscles to obey his orders to climb to the very top of each and every single tower. He had forced his wings to acknowledge him again, until he was confident they would tip to the slightest change in the winds. Thorn had "helped" to hone his battle skills. Jarshan had been able to firmly prove his dominance, and the pampered hatchling now had a few more scars to mark his tender hide.

Still, Jarshan had new scars of his own, ones he had not even the honor of receiving from another dragon. True, the sniveling magicians of his master had offered to heal his wounds, but one snarl had put them in their place. _Wild _dragons, especially their one true king, had no need of human magic.

Once his former strength had been recovered, there should have been no more obstacles standing between him and the sky. Still, Jarshan's every attempt at flight resulted in painful crashes onto the rooftop below. The magicians had given up on repairing the damaged structures the moment his flames had almost charred one of them. Now they just concentrated on maintaining the fortress's structural integrity, and avoiding the fire and slashing claws of a very angry dragon.

_You're still at this? _Thorn asked in amazement, just waking up from a brief map. _How difficult can it be to fly?_

_Try being dead for over eighty years, and a disembodied spirit for the rest of that time! _Jarshan roared back, blue-gray flames spewing forth from his maw. _Rebirth was damn near difficult enough._

Again, the stone-scaled dragon's concern over his tumultuous full rebirth reared up. Even after he had conquered Jarsha in dominance over their body, part of the pathetic boy had still lingered after he had fully emerged. Jarshan had then done his best to purge the last traces of the second life he had began only to fully return as his _true _self. But perhaps humanity still tainted him enough to keep the freedom of the wide open sky tentatively out of reach. Without the cooperation of his wings, the playful pull of the wind had become torturous, and the clouds drifting by seemed to mock him for his helplessness.

_Right, _Thorn said easily, well accustomed to the outbursts of the elder male. _Just how did your rebirth go again?_

Jarshan growled in irritation. He knew the pitiful hatchling wanted a way to free himself of his unbreakable oaths, and apparently thought he held the secret solution. And, the gray-scaled dragon thought with a shudder, the other _five _souls imprisoned inside of Thorn also desired freedom from their eternal torment. Those with spirits sealed inside Eldunarya, unable to join their ancestors among the stars until their prisons were shattered. Jarshan had no desire to contact such pariahs, those who had suffered the same fate that could have befallen him, for his master had ordered him to not interfere with those dragons he considered his property.

_Go and die yourself, hatchling. Perhaps you'll discover that you were already on your second life, and that you just wasted the opportunity to live out the rest of those long centuries as a dragon._

Thorn cocked his head in confusion. _You mean dragons can be reborn as different creatures? _

_...Aye, _Jarshan replied at last, once again turning his attention to the sky as he unfurled his wings, hoping to catch a breeze that would help carry him upward.

_Then what were you, if I may so boldly asked?_

_Weak. Trapped within a body unable to defend itself without artificial weapons, cut off from the sky and and from the fires in my heart. I was forced into a dreamless sleep, an eternal nightmare where I was __barely able to influence a part of my own soul that had been rendered alien to me. _Talons dug deeper into the floor, scarring the stone. _It was no longer a part of me, and so I burned it into ashes._

Thorn silently absorbed this, but Jarshan could feel his mind struggling to comprehend his words, to find the elusive answer that was just out of reach. _Human..._

_There have been no new eggs laid for decades, Rider's pet. Had I wanted to return to life, I first needed a body to inhabit, even if it was that of a different race. I found a vessel to incarnate into, and it nearly killed me to be in there as the years dragged on. You see, hatchling, we wild dragons need our flames, our talons, our wings. _Slowly, he again ventured over to the edge, to the void between the sky above and the earth in the courtyard below. Were Jarshan unfortunate, this time he would miss the roof entirely and plummet all the way to the merciless ground that broke bones and shattered spines. _We dragons need the sky._

Thorn roared in surprise as the other male suddenly charged out of the dragon-hold, fighting tooth and claw against gravity as he struggled to gain altitude. Jarshan had flung himself beyond the safety of the rooftop, and now only the solid earth awaited him if he failed. Wings straining against a body his mind subconsciously still viewed as alien, there was nothing but that pure instinct to _rise._

Just before gravity claimed him, Jarshan lurched up and away from the ground, his mighty wings at last working in tandem to do as they were supposed to.

Spirits soaring, the stone-gray dragon roared in triumph, relishing in his victory over the natural forces that were so determined to see him fail. He did not know, nor did he care, about whether his defiance had been toward a stubbornly lingering piece of human weakness or against a power determined to ensure that the dead stayed dead. He had succeeded. Aiedail the First King was with him. The sky was his again, and King Jarshan was now ready to reclaim his rightful position from the usurper who had dared to steal it from him.

* * *

Eridor knew he was exhausted, far more than he had been before realizing that his last clutch of eggs had not been smashed into pieces following the death of himself and his mate. Much energy was expended communicating with his two precious sons, his Trinnean and Caradoc, and of temporarily possessing Eragon's body to personally interact with his children. Hatchlings did not remain so for long, especially in times of war, and he cherished every single moment he was able to spend with his innocent and rambunctious sons.

By the time of his murder, Eridor had been over thirty, and had been King of the wild dragons for twenty of those years. Many broods of hatchlings had been sired, and many had gone off to have families of their own. Every single one had eventually joined him among the ancestors. Royal dragons were notorious for their pride and courage, and his children had desired vengeance for the death of their parents. With them had gone the chances of a strong ruler uniting the fragmented groups of surviving wild dragons, and the chance of continuing the main branch of a line that hearkened all the way back to Aiedail. Trinnean and Caradoc, along with Mavalis, captive of Galbatorix or not, were the last true ones of the original royal dragons. Should Eragon fall in battle, the crown would pass down to the one that proved himself worthy in the eyes of their forefathers.

It was late into the evening, and from the waves of blissful contentment rolling out of Eragon's part of their mind, he was fast asleep. Eridor wasted no time in taking advantage of the situation; even when willing to temporarily hand over control of their body, Eragon's fully awake subconscious would put up a resistance that would sap the dead King dragon of even more precious energy. But with his younger half oblivious, their body was perfectly availible.

_Look at my sons, _Eridor whispered with pride, nuzzling their sleeping forms. The twin princes were resourceful, and often curled up together between Eragon and Saphira to take advantage of the heat both massive bodies radiated. Caradoc growled a little in his sleep, and Eridor noted with amusement that he was having vivid dreams of hunting, perhaps fueled by his ancestral memories. Slumber deep and dreamless, Trinnean unconsciously curled up to the warmth of the white muzzle that gently brushed him. _You're growing up to be so big and strong, just like your father._

He regretted that he would never get to see them grow up, even if it was by only watching through Eragon's eyes.

Craning his head upward to the starry heavens, Eridor was still amazed at how few of them were left. _We see that the time grows near, even though most may lose sight of sight down here. _

Back in the beginning, when he had first fully manifested in Eragon to unleash his wrath upon those that had dared harm his- _their _she-dragon, Eridor had felt the temptation to completely take control of the body. With Eragon unconscious and barely tethered to this world, it wouldn't have been hard for the older and stronger portion of the soul to sever the connection entirely, and have a complete rebirth into the world. But with his Safiri peacefully at rest within her new body, and no real need for him to entirely return, Eridor had handed back control to Eragon.

_I wonder if he knows yet that I'm expending energy just to keep from slipping back into a dormant state? That I weaken even as his confidence in himself and his responsibilities strengthen. Does he know how it was the King's Wrath, the very same powerful blessing that saved Saphira and won the battle against Murtagh, that made me fall this far?_

Eridor swished his tail, reveling in the actual sensation of scales scraping against dirt. Beside him, Saphira rumbled in her sleep. For the briefest of moments, he deluded himself into thinking that he was in his real body, lying next to _his _Safiri, safe and sound with their sons in their cave.

But this body was alien to him, too young and untried to feel remotely like his. His mate was dead, and while the young sapphire she-dragon beside him bore a strong physical resemblance to her, Saphira was _not _Safiri, any more than he was Eragon. Mavalis was still dormant in his stolen egg, languishing in the treasury of a mad tyrant that desired him as a slave. His absence amongst his brothers was gaping, for Eridor knew there should have been a patch of green curled up amidst the light blue scales of Trinnean and Caradoc. And the desolate emptiness the Burning Plains, with the Varden camp in the distance, was a far cry from his warm and secure hideaway in the towering Beor Mountains.

_Ghosts cannot linger forever, and I have no wish to. Soon, Eragon, it will be time to stand before your forefathers and prove yourself truly worthy of the title you still falsely bear in their eyes. Soon, the time will come for the King's Trial._

Eridor again slipped back to the back of their shared mind, allowing the eyelids of _Eragon's _body to snap shut as its true owner stepped forward. His uninvited guest simply waited for sunrise, and ignored the tempting desire to just let go and fall into sleep.

**Next chapter: Short time skip to when the offense against Galbatorix actually begins. Eragon's ready to get back into the fray, but Eridor has become mysteriously distant as of late. Meanwhile, Jarshan prepares for his own glorious return.**

**1. As seen when Eragon was leaving Du Weldenvarden in ****_Eldest, _****Islanzadi was already amassing soldiers to finally go on the offense. Since they were declaring open warfare anyway, why not scare the Empire even more than by revealing ****_another _****Rider and dragon had survived the genocide? Killing spells don't take much effort, so Oromis could have always resorted just remaining safely in the air and blasting out those until he won. And Glaedr is a colossal centuries' ****old dragon. Three legs or not, no soldier is going to want that behemoth roaring for his blood.**

**2. Remember that Eragon is still officially 'on a secret mission.' Because of the oaths that protect his secret, and the fact that a very large crowd was eavesdropping in their conversation, Oromis and Glaedr are under the impression that the new 'King of the wild dragons' was a dragon whose egg had managed to escape capture before hatching without a Rider, eventually finding his way to the resistance. Rest assured, our favorite mentors will ****_not _****be pleased that Eragon got himself turned into a dragon, or that Saphira is now his kinda-sorta mate :D. And then there's Eridor and his hyper hatchlings to consider...**

**3. Eridor is ****_dead, _****and is supposed to remain ****_a dormant part of Eragon's subconscious!_**** He only woke up in the first place because the Ra'zac pissed him off when they threatened Saphira/Safiri. Fighting against the natural forces of life and death take their toll on you, and Eridor can only hold out for so long. Also, despite being one of the last wild dragons left, Eragon was never ****_officially _****crowned king. Only when he was possessed by Eridor was he able to unlock the glorious knock-out powers of the King's Wrath. If he doesn't undergo the Trial, he'll have very limited access to those abilities, and God knows he's going to need all the help he can get.**


	25. Act III: Chapter 1: Offense

**It lives! -cue the cheesy B-movie background music- Written partly because I was suddenly craving writing out a major battle, and we were just getting to that part :D... And because some really great readers gave me the motivation to finish. I'm proud to say that things pick up steam in this act. Bloody battles, epic displays of kings in all their kingly awesomeness, sassy hatchlings that should have ****_never _****learned to talk, creepy stalker-ghosts, and all the ship-teasing I can possibly throw into a T-fic! And yes, I wrote this entire freaking thing with Globus and E.S. Posthumous blaring in the background (most notably ****_Preliator _****and ****_Arise._****)**

**And, since this chapter came out a few days later than intended, I would also like to take the time to honor those lost in 9/11. Ten years has done nothing to fade the horrors of that terrible day, and we can now only honor the fallen and do our best to ensure their memory always lives on. May they have found peace, may their families one day find peace, and may America finally find its peace.**

**Disclaimer: _The Inheritance Cycle _belongs to Chris Paolini. However, THESE and material like them are mine. -holds up baby!Trinnean and baby!Caradoc- Bask in the adorably impish glory of Trin-Trin and Car-Car!**

Aroughs was a major Imperial port city, one that funneled precious meat and wool up from the Southern Isles, and was also the temporary home of the fleet preparing to sail into Surdan waters as the cold war finally flared into true conflict. For Galbatorix, Aroughs was a priceless port, one that could not afforded to be lost. Its capture would split the Empire's navy in two, unless sailors wanted to brave the unpredictable waters and sea serpents of the open ocean by sailing around the Southern Isles, or running the risks of breaching on jagged rocks or being sucked under by whirlpools if they dared sail through them.

The Varden had the element of surprise on their side. Why on earth would even the Mad King suspect them of taking on the offensive so soon after several major conflicts in the Burning Plains? His sources would be telling him of how Eragon Shadeslayer was still abroad on some mysterious mission. Saphira would be too vulnerable with 'her' hatchlings to risk going into battle. And her alleged mate, the wild dragon who had one day shown up out the blue? False information had been fed to the known spies, that the so-called King Bluefire was losing interest in a war that did not concern him, and was disappearing for increased periods of time each day. With the southern forces so weak, Murtagh and Thorn would be sent to the cities closest to Du Weldenvarden, to curtail Oromis's advancement southward.

None would know that Eragon had never left the area. Or that Saphira's innocent 'games' with Trinnean and Caradoc had been both practice for her, and lessons for them in self-defense if they needed to know how to protect themselves. And the wild dragon who always slipped away to brood by himself? His mentor was within his very _mind, _constantly assessing his strengths and weaknesses and correcting every little mistake he made. Ancestral memories from all those who had dared attack human settlements before fed his knowledge of new warfare. His own experiences taught him how not even the best of armor could shield a man from the heat of dragon-fire. Those Rider's dragons that had warred against Palancar's forces had obliterated catapults and other massive weapons with strategic blasts while their companions fought on foot. And not all of a magician's greatest enchantments could stop fire that burned right through their spells, as an impudent Rider that had attempted to take one of Queen Tasmirin's eggs without permission had soon discovered.

When the generals had rallied their troops, false news reported them to be heading north to unite with the elven forces. Intelligence now showed Imperial soldiers gathering around Urubaen and the central cities in an attempt to intersect the rebel army.

The mobilized armies instead headed southwest, the magicians strategically dispersed through the legions to help conceal their presence. Those forces that remained behind the Burning Plains had been ordered to enforce their fortifications. Should all have gone according to plan, they would unite with the main army and resume the campaign north, or else retreat into Surda if the plan failed. Eragon and Saphira had flown reconnaissance, the elves upon their backs swiftly taking care of scouts that could have spotted them and planning the most efficient route to Aroughs.

Now dawn was close to breaking, the skies around the horizon lightening. Even so submerged beneath the waves only his eyes and nostrils crested the surface, Eragon could clearly see the countless ships that bobbed in the harbor, their crews bound to awaken. With his mind closed off from every external presence, Saphira included, he had no idea just how many of those thousands of sailors would be prepared for just what he had in store.

_Keep your mind sealed tight, _Eridor intoned. His calm and composed presence was always there, an inner strength that stripped away Eragon's doubts and fears, leaving only an iron resolve behind. _If those magicians can't sense who or where you are, they can't cast a spell or death or some other such thing. Leave the mental defenses to me. Just remember those memories of sea serpents, and that you need to use up air to ignite your fire._

Eragon was so accustomed to the instruction he didn't even nod, burning blue eyes now glued to Aroughs itself as he awaited the signal. Suddenly, seemingly miles above the city, he saw a flash of light most would have credited toward the coming sunrise. The white dragon took one last breath, an inhale so deep his lungs felt like exploding, and disappeared entirely into the dark depths of the ocean.

Keeping his wings tucked close to his sides, and his limbs beneath him, he advanced on his oblivious targets. Big, bobbing hunks of wood that stood no chance against a dragon's flames. Sailors that would not even get the chance to fight back before their crafts were devastated beyond repair and they were sent flying into the sea.

_Human sentimentality can no longer afford to get in your way. They are the enemy, those who will eagerly hurt your comrades if given the chance. Would you rather see Trinnean and Caradoc slaughtered by those too bloodthirsty to spare the innocent? Your cousin, your last true kin, to die in vain and leave his new bride and unborn child behind in a tyrant's world? To see Saphira, __**our **__beautiful and proud Saphira, the beaten-down and broken plaything of an abomination!_

Visions of blood-stained blue scales flashed in his mind's eye, the sight of a fantastically fierce she-dragon helpless against the unholy creatures that held her very life in their claws, and the bitter memory of himself being powerless to stop it. The burning rage surged up, and again Eragon gleefully embraced and accepted that primal fury as his own.

He aimed toward one of the largest vessels at the edge of the harbor, the one nearby most likely to hold a hostile magician, and didn't hesitate as he surged forward. Six sharp horns penetrated the wooden hull and then ripped themselves back out. Ocean water came pouring in from a hole now beyond repair.

Eragon took the one opportunity given to him, his fangs and spiked tail ripping into every ship he could reach before the stunned sailors could rally against the destroyer that stalked them from below. He propelled his way through the water, wrecking every thing that floated in his path. Paid no mind to the thrashing figures that were sent spilling into the sea. The ocean muted, but could not silence, the terrified cries, the wooden hulls that cracked like broken bones, the last groans of ruined ships that fell to the bottom.

Finally, even the vast reserves of air his body could store began to run out, and his lungs began to burn with the demand for fresh oxygen. Eragon surged toward the surface, exposing just enough of himself to take a greedy gulp-

_ERAGON!_

Eridor's warning came just in time for the white dragon's head to slip back under the waves, narrowly avoiding the supernatural green fire that struck where he had been but a moment before. But not even the water was cool enough to tame it completely, Eragon wheeling back as his snow-white scales gained an ugly red tone, his shriek of agony bringing salty death flowing into his lungs.

Eragon exploded forth from the wreck-laden waves with a furious bellow he managed between his chokes and splutters. Below were entire crews fearfully captivated by his overwhelming presence. Those that had prepared for a battle against a single aggressively tenacious sea serpent and had found themselves an adult dragon.

But already the spell of awe had been broken. Men reached for quivers while their superiors screamed for catapults and magicians to be readied. Some opened their mouths, words of power forming on their lips as the furious white dragon descended down upon them. Flames intense enough to burn straight through enchantments ravenously devoured every ship and soul they touched. Another inhale, and another four ships attempting to raise their anchors were consumed by a blaze of blue.

Rising further above the harbor, Eragon glanced back toward Aroughs. By the dim shouts he heard from the city, their fleet would receive no rescue. There were explosions of magic as Blodgharm and his elves hunted down and executed their counterparts. Varden soldiers swarmed through cracks the Du Vrangr Gata had made in the Imperial defenses. Somewhere amongst them Nasuada was delivering orders, Arya had entered a deadly dance with those unfortunate enough to underestimate her, and Angela and Solembum were happily throwing themselves into impossible clashes most others would have considered suicide.

Above the city he saw Saphira continually swooping down to raze rows of archers or to knock out a catapult. One of Blodgharm's elves was perched upon her back, protecting her from magical offensives while shooting off her own devastating spells. She was again a force of majesty and destruction, a wrathful demigod to those who watched her wrath demolish every single one of Arough's defenses.

Then he folded his wings and dove again, sending a final blast of fire before vanishing under the waves.

While submerged enough to avoid normal attacks, Eragon could now feel unfamiliar magicians swarming around his mind, searching for cracks in his mental defenses. Eridor now fought a battle of his own, sending off endless waves of burning rage so strong the invaders were sent flying back into their bodies.

Feeling his confidence in his ability grow with every felled ship, Eragon grew bolder in his attacks, head rising from the waves to send off more jets of fire as he advanced deeper into the harbor into some of the strongest ships in the fleet.

Far off, he could notice other ships sailing into the bay. At first glance, they appeared to be typical Imperial ships, wearing the uniforms and flying the colors of the Empire. Only the bottoms of their hulls, painted white or any other unique color their crews had gotten their hands on, marked them as allies. They easily inserted themselves into the Imperial navy, firing off shots that turned the enemy against each other.

Even the _Dragonwing, _the massive craft that Roran had used to transport most of Carvahall to safety,was amongst them. Only this time the battle ship had been repaired and refurbished, nearly unrecognizable from the battered boat that had endured whirlpools and attacks from other ships. It was operated by an experienced crew of Surdan and ex-Imperial soldiers that were no strangers to combat. Some had even persuaded a magician to carve a figurehead, the sapphire-scaled that fearlessly snarled at her enemies from her perch on the bow, a loyal guardian to the newly-christened _Dragon's Vengeance._

With new allies in his mission, Eragon soldiered on even as catapults and shrapnel from the ships he wrecked took their toll on his hide. Only able to hope that Saphira was well, his mind entirely sealed off from hers, the white dragon turned his attention to one of the biggest surviving frigates in the fleet and struggled to keep the worry from his mind.

* * *

Trinnean had been too young to understand what had been going on when his kin-dragons and the leader-humans had argued over what to do with him and his brother-nestmate. He had only comprehended that Uncle-Eragon and Auntie-Saphira were seriously discussing on leaving him and Caradoc behind. They had even ignored what _their _wise-father-king had ordered! So he and his brother had done their best to convince them otherwise, never leaving the sides of their parent-siblings and sending all the pleading-thought-pictures they could.

Only now, over a whole month old, was Trinnean mature enough to understand that Eragon and Saphira had been going into battle. Like the brave-warriors of ages-long-past, they had gone to war to both avenge their fallen kin and again make the world safe for dragon-kind. Their cause was noble, their spirits as hot as the flames they breathed, and both dragons were ready to teach the egg-breaker-traitor-king to never again underestimate their mighty race.

Caradoc had yearned to throw himself into the battle alongside his family and to make their father-king proud. Even when Trinnean had tried to show his brother-nestmate how suicidal it was to charge off into danger without even knowing how to fly, the damn dragon had been determined to defy the orders even Uncle-Eragon had growled at them.

The moment they had flown off, much of the army naturally following in their wake, Caradoc had been preparing himself to drag Trinnean off after them. Camp had then been mostly empty, except for the civilians and those ordered to guard them. Even their human-cousin, Roran, was absent, having chosen to stay back with his pregnant mate while the others had gone ahead. The only family left to watch over the nest-brothers was Elva, the strange one with the human's body and the she-dragon's sharp mind. Caradoc had argued they were now bigger than their care-giver, thus strong enough to go out and protect _her. _

Now, with the roars of distant battle and of his Uncle-Eragon faintly ringing in his ears, Trinnean had found that Caradoc's prediction had still managed to come true.

Sister-Elva was more handicapped than even her scrawny human-girl appearance let on. A mistake made by Uncle-Eragon had left her with the need to shield all others from harm. When she did not, she would still be agonized by all the pain and injury she couldn't or wouldn't deflect. With a battle raging within earshot, the normally strong-stubborn-sister was curled up and crying like a wounded hatchling.

While the humans pretended she and her agony did not exist, it was Trinnean and his brother who curled up around her, doing their best to embrace her as she had once done for them as helpless hatchlings. Their wings blotted out the scene of panicked and worried humans as they fretted over the battle and their low hums did their best to drown out the clamor of metal and the occasional roar.

_Hush, little-big-sister, _Caradoc soothed in uncharacteristic tenderness. _It will be over soon. Father-king and the not-blood-siblings will return home victorious._

As Sister-Elva thrashed again, agony broiling over into the minds of the young brothers, Trinnean only held her closer and did his best to drown the pain in wave upon wave of numbing blue. It was a battle in itself, a debt repaid to kin that had looked out for them since their hatching, and a reason why even battle-hungry Caradoc was relieved Uncle-Eragon had made a rare display of authority by _demanding _them remain camp.

Sister-Elva needed them far, far more.

* * *

Ever since Eragon had gone and gotten himself transformed into a dragon by a dead king squatting inside his own mind, Saphira had not too fond of wearing that damned saddle, or having to adjust her flying to prevent inexperienced passengers from falling right off or vomiting all over her pristine sapphire scales.

Sindri had proven herself an exception to that rule.

Saphira did not have the luxury of simply ramming into ships from the refuge of the ocean depths like some slippery sea serpent. Nasuada and her tacticians needed her flying over head to directly decimate the city of Aroughs, also putting her at risk from arrows and spells from Imperial forces. Everyone had refused to let her go charging off into the fray without one of Blodgharm's strongest elves as an escort.

Slender and silver-haired Sindri had proven herself to possess the lethal grace and beauty of a sleek wild cat. Her wards deflected the arrows and other bombardments Saphira couldn't afford to dodge. When unable to use one of the simple words of death, the elf-woman would politely request Saphira to swoop down low over the tides of soldiers streaming out of Aroughs. Apparently the Imperial magicians hadn't been prepared for the very air they breathed to become poisonous, preventing use of verbal spells and often causing bursts of unfocused mind magic that devastated those around them.

_Damn, _Saphira swore as she again made another lap around the still impenetrable walls of the port city. _Those wards on the barricades are holding up well. With bodies and soldiers still protecting the entrances to Aroughs, we may never capture it in time before Murtagh and his treacherous lizard show up! Do you see any weaknesses?_

Sindri's sharp eyes scanned the walls as she casually altered the air just enough for another legion of Imperial soldiers to collapse, the Varden forces taking great care to remain as far away from Aroughs itself as physically possible until the walls were actually breached.

"I see no way, Saphira Bjartskular. The Black King weaves his enchantments too well for a single elf to undo them alone."

Her eyes momentarily flicked in the direction of her companions. They were hacking through endless waves of enemies like a farmer through weeds. Blue-furred Blodgharm was most visible of them all, fangs bared in a feline-like smile that must have made him look like a demon incarnate. All were too far away to reach, and Saphira could not risk a landing in such a crowded and bloodied field.

Saphira turned wistfully toward the harbor, where Eragon's white form continued to help smash Galbatorix's navy alongside the _Dragon's Vengeance _and other allied ships. His magic-burning fire was sorely needed at the moment, but he had his own battle to win, and she had not seen him use his extraordinary gift since the fateful encounter with Thorn and Murtagh.

She suddenly paused, hovering safely above the carnage below as she considered her options. Her fanged smirk should have been a warning to any Imperial who saw it.

_Sindri, would you be so bold enough as to temporary combine your strength with mine?_

The elf-woman gasped in that sad but flattering dragon-worshiping way. "Brightscales, such melding of the minds is but an honor reserved for a dragon and her Rider. I could not dare to intrude upon such a sacred-"

_I have no Rider, _Saphira answered brightly, _just an adorable stone-head who direly needs to learn more about the opposite sex. Besides, since you act like I am so high above you in rank, I have the ability to __**order **__you to do so._

Reluctantly, but with a tinge of nearly feverish excitement, Sindri lowered the last of her mental barriers. Elf-woman and she-dragon became briefly one, the carefully honed and concentrated magic of a master magician combining with the raw and primal powers not even the dragons themselves had any true control over. When Saphira again let loose a plume of blue fire at the walls of Aroughs, the tips of her flames flickered with the potent edge of magic.

It was nowhere near a match for Eragon's blue fire. Saphira and Sindri's creation drew its strength from traditional magic, and thus was immediately inferior to a flame that could burn right through it. Common dragon-fire only enhanced every last drop of the elf-woman's power, channeling it into a force that sent Galbatorix's defenses toppling with audible _snaps. _It did not take long afterward for the walls to start becoming blackened by the barrage of flames.

Just in time, too, for Sindri's magical reserves were nearly depleted by the time the magic would release them. The elf was pale and quivering, nearly having fallen off the saddle if not for the straps that kept her secured. Saphira faltered in her flaps, dropping several stories before able to merely hover.

Such an unnatural fusion of elf and dragon magic had nearly sapped their lives along with their reserves. The connection between them had felt_ wrong, _in a way between the natural bond between dragon and Rider, or between dragons, had never had. By the fierce pounding in her heart, Saphira grimly and rightly assumed she would have one hell of a night ahead of her.

Until the overwhelming feel of victory regained control, and Saphira roared her deafening triumph to the heavens. Her bellow would draw the rebellion's attention to the newly vulnerable walls. Trianna was immediately pushing her way through the crowd, coming together with elves and other members of the Du Vrangr Gata as they sent the fortifications toppling down for the stream of soldiers that came charging in after them.

"No offense, noble Brightscales," Sindri panted weakly, "but I think I will be forced to refuse your orders the next time this happens."

_So do I, Sindri, so do I. _

Saphira made a lazy circle around Aroughs, eying the frightened enemy forces beneath her, those who had no idea that the kind of tricks Eragon had pulled back the Burning Plains were ones only _he _was capable of pulling off. They had only rumors of that encounter to go by, the fantastic fairy tales that must have popped up by then, and the apparent knowledge that the _other _dragon was just as deadly. Perhaps even Galbatorix himself would come to believe whatever outlandish tales would result in this. It would at least certainly improve her already formidable reputation in the Empire.

Her fires and most of her strength spent, but her main goal accomplished, Saphira can to retreat back as her fellow rebels brazenly charged forward.

She was no longer needed in the invasion. Blodgharm and the rest of his elves would crush the last of the resistance and capture the lord that was still most likely cowering in his estate. Trianna and her magicians would hunt down the rest of their counterparts. Arya would do all of that, and still make it to the official surrender ceremony as mysteriously immaculate as she always happened to be after every mishap she encountered. Nasuada, adorned in armor and in blood she had both shed and spilled for her cause and people, would be there to generously accept that surrender from the cowardly little lord who had not made such a sacrifice for his own city. Angela and Solembum would just be there, doing whatever eccentric witches and cryptic werecats did to celebrate victory.

As she lazily drifted back, Saphira glanced down at the harbor. Most of what remained were Varden ships bobbing in a mess of timber from their devastated enemy fleet. Sailors were still bobbing in the water or trying to make a break for land, only to be picked up by crews and taken as prisoners of war. Eragon had largely given up in his previous onslaught, now gasping for air he had been rationing for hours.

Eyes of sapphire locked with those of burning blue as the two dragons opened up a private connection. _Going so soon? I thought you would stick around for the surrender. You'd never usually deny a chance to intimidate humiliated Imperial lords who just helped to get out of power._

_Oh, I'll be back. I'd just rather not go to any sort of ceremony while looking so undignified and exhausted. Give me some time to collect myself, eat a cow or three, and check up on the hatch- er, the little ones. _Why did the adorable newborns of her kind have to grow up so quickly?

_I would also like to see my sons, _Eridor said tersely. It wasn't a suggestion.

Eragon grumbled on his breath, before spreading his wings and rising out of the water. He shook himself off, got buckets of sea water onto the indignant ships below, and barely managed a polite nod to the half-conscious Sindri as he eagerly slipped back into conversation with the she-dragon had been separated from for most of the day.

_I hope Elva is faring fine, _Eragon suddenly mumbled, mind again darkening with regret for the she-dragon's soul he had forcibly awakened and the spirit of the newborn he had accidentally killed from the strain of his fumbled blessing. _I did my best to avoid the actual sailors whenever possible. _He suddenly closed his eyes in pain. _Oh, gods! Trinnean and Caradoc must have been there for one of her fits! How the hell am I supposed to tell them I am responsible for what happened to her?_

Saphira's concern grew as Eridor's anxiety spiked alarmingly. Elva had been the adopted daughter he had raised from his own since she was but a little hatchling. How must it feel to have three children in agony, as nothing but a bodiless spirit unable to truly even comfort them in their times of need?

_Trinnean and Caradoc are your sons, _Saphira consoled dead King. _They are not frightened or ashamed of Elva. They are probably offering her whatever comfort and strength they can. Like you stone-heads, they're too stubborn to do anything else._

Returning to camp, both Eragon and Saphira would find themselves attached to their exhausted and shaken 'children.' They would do their best to console Elva until Angela, the only healer the she-dragon in girl's skin trusted near her, returned. Trinnean and Caradoc would proudly tell of how they had cared for their 'little-big-sister' before demanding every last detail of the battle from all three of their unlikely guardians.

Later, when the soldiers returned intoxicated on victory and actual alcohol, they would slip away from the revelry and to a copse of trees to get some peace and quiet away from the noise. Four dragons, a human-looking girl, and a disembodied spirit must have looked strange to be curled up altogether. However, their six minds saw only the bonds of family, the shared pride and silent triumph that was celebration enough for them.

It would not be until the morning that Saphira would realize the Varden had finally gone on the offense and would now be on that path to the bitter end, and that Eragon realized his former masters were awaiting the arrival of the new 'King of the wild dragons' and deserved one hell of a wild but true explanation.

Or Eridor, who had clung to the distractions of family and his mockery of a life for as long as he could, remembered the last duty he had to fulfill to a race largely long-dead. After all, it would do the dragons no good for the King to be nothing more than a bodiless, weakening spirit only able to work his power through others.

**Next chapter: The time has come for Jarshan to unleash his inner beast on the rebellion and his own brother, but first, he has some other siblings to visit. Some very dead and very unhappy siblings. Eragon is again haunted by oddly accurate dreams on the journey north. Also, Thorn ****_really _****wants those mother-loving answers. The only one who potentially holds the answers? ****Here's a hint; he's a powerful and magically-enhanced beast... whose mind and sanity happens to be stored in a glorified mood ring.**

**1. Before this point, the Varden had only been on the defensive. With them still recovering from the battles at the Burning Plains, and the elves having gotten their asses into gear, Galbatorix did the smart thing and diverted most of his forces north. With some very magical people on their side, the southern forces were able to make it to Aroughs, a relatively close and strategic point of interest, without attracting enough attention to alert Galbatorix. These weeks traveling were also spent planning the offense and getting Eragon battle-ready.**

**2. There's a good portion of the navy stored at Aroughs. Eragon can move and fight really well in the water, thus able to provide a surprise attack before providing back-up to the Varden fleet. Since the King's Wrath and the rest of his abilities are unreliable, and since Saphira has more experience in battles as a dragon, he took the aquatic approach.**

**3. After all the shit Roran put the ****_Dragonwing _****through, it really needed some repairs, because the Varden wasn't about to scuttle one of the Empire's most previously valued ships. Redoing the ship and giving it a bad-ass new name was just an extra little 'screw you' to the Man. The ****_Dragon's Vengeance? _****Dragons can hold grudges even ****_after death, _****as Jarshan and Eridor have so politely shown us, and think we taste good with ketchup. Do you really want to get onto one's bad side? **

**4. Yes, I miss the baby dragons, but they're still young-ish. Traveling those kind of distances with an army will take at least few weeks in optimum conditions. Since Saphira started talking at a ****_month _****old, Trinnean and Caradoc have about reached this point. Rest assured, with their wierd parents and big sister to shelter them, they won't emotionally mature as quickly as Saphira did ;).**

**5. How hard can it be to switch around a few oxygen molecules with the Alagaesian magic system, creating pockets of air no human could breathe? Sindri's gruesome yet effective attack method. If you've got a dragon and freaking magic, you might as well think of a way of keeping the both of you relatively safer up in the air instead of risking ground attack. (Looking at you, book!Eragon in the Burning Plains -.-'.) Now, combine the magic of a highly trained elf with whatever the hell powers dragon magic, and you get a potent combination that can fry out even Galbatorix-level wards. The downside? If that elf/human isn't your Rider, being bonded at such deep levels negatively impacts both souls, while also with the danger of completely draining one or both of those involved involved of magic/fire/life. ****_Use with freaking caution!_**


	26. Act III: Chapter 2: Loyalties

**This update came long after the book's release, but this story ****_will _****be finished one day. Hopefully. And for those who need clarifying or reminding, this story is a post-****_Eldest _****AU. Don't count on this being compatible with information learned from either ****_Brisingr _****or ****_Inheritance! _****(as in the green egg's fate, the nature of magic, the ultimate fate of dragons and Dragon Riders, or any characters that first appear beyond the first two books) I've had the basic frame-work of this story for years now, and I don't feel like altering it to fit a canon I've veered away from years ago. This Vroengard is staying sea-serpent infested, this green egg has nothing to do with Firnen, ect. **

**So again, welcome back to readers old and new, and be prepared to leave everything you know as canon behind... FOREVER. -ominous music-**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the ****_Inheritance Cycle. _****All original material belongs to me.**

The servants and nobles who inhabited the Fortress had not taken long to notice their aggressive new resident. With the dragon race nearly extinct, down to a mere confirmed three individuals and only the existence of several more rumored, the sudden appearance of a third dragon on the Empire's side was one all loyal to King Galbatorix could rejoice in. When stories of the devastating power the so-called 'King of the wild dragons' had come trickling into Urubaen, its population had merely thanked their lucky stars for having a new ally of supposedly greater strength on their side.

Those who were actually around the Empire's dragons had once thought quite differently. The gray-scaled dragon had rarely left the dragon-hold upon his arrival, and had been forced to scale the towers at first just to gain access. The flights that had followed belonged more to a drunken duck than a fierce and mighty dragon. No one had actually been foolish enough to laugh about it, but not everyone could conceal their smirks when the newcomer had crashed face-first into a tower.

Slowly, however, the skepticism and amusement had faded away when that clumsy flapping had turned into sharp moves and precision that could rival a falcon's. Jarshan had clawed back from the vale of death, had thoroughly hunted down and destroyed every last remaining trace of the disgraceful human he had been temporarily imprisoned in, and had turned that same iron resolve to reclaiming his former glory.

He had showed his many critics how far he had improved since his former pathetic state. Thorn's usefulness as a sparring partner had rapidly shrunk as Jarshan's old strength and prowess had returned to him. Those who doubted his capabilities would only have to look up in the airspace above the Fortress and remember he was holding back, and that the she-dragon of Eragon Shadeslayer was not much larger than Thorn.

Unfortunately, success had left his mind nothing to concentrate on. Jarshan caught himself wandering down paths that led to memories best buried for eternity. He did not need to recall whose fault it was he had only a quivering hatchling and a mad beast for the company of his own kind. Nor did he need to remember the fate that had befallen many wild dragons and Riders' pets alike.

Jarshan paused in yet another period of rumination. Galbatorix had been exasperatingly distant as of late. With his strongest servant back at full strength and false dragon-kings now siding with the rebellion, now should have been the moment for the Black King to leap into action. Instead, Jarshan's master was still sealed up in his personal chambers for days on end, turning away all who dared intrude upon his solitude. Shruikan was now alarmingly unattended, and it was only through very clear threats posed by Jarshan himself that the black beast didn't go on a rampage through Urubaen.

Galbatorix's confounding orders thus far had merely been to order the majority of his forces back into the Empire's heart, apparently having left the outer towns and cities to the rebellion's wrath. Most humiliatingly had been the crushing defeat and capture of the vital port city of Aroughs. Bound by unbreakable oaths to obey his orders at all costs, Jarshan was physically unable to leave Urubaen's borders to stomp out the threat Eridor and his little reincarnation were swiftly becoming.

Jarshan allowed his muzzle to curl back into a snarl of disdain as he eyed his napping companion.

_I don't suppose you're overly concerned about this._

Thorn didn't even stir in his slumber, not in the least bit ashamed of what a spineless coward he was when it came to blood and battle. A light brush against his mind turned up no signs of conscious thought... except for the five alien presences embedded within.

Stamping down on the pathetic surge of cowardice that tried to rise up, Jarshan ignored Thorn altogether as he broadened communication toward the Eldunarya. _Neither are you five, I suppose. What has Galbatorix given you except an unending hell trapped within your own heart of hearts, unable to join your kin amongst the stars, unable to be reborn in the natural cycle of our kind? Surely you're all begging for that so-called King of the wild dragons to liberate you!_

The stone-gray dragon snarled at enemies that could not see him, daring one to respond. The small hatchling had been shocked into silence, while the ancient elder had long since lapsed into catatonia. Two minds that could have been nestmates kept their thoughts woven tightly together, stubbornly refusing him access as he mockingly tapped at their mental barriers.

_Better true death than an eternity dealing with an oath-breaker._

Jarshan's eyes snapped open to a degree that should have been impossible. He growled warily at the all-too familiar voice and the memories of an ancient past it had stirred up.

_King Vanilor reigned long and opposed. He and Ocurni cranked out countless broods, and most lived to spawn their own little brats. I care little for the bonds of blood, sister, and less for those who address their ruler so brazenly._

He could almost truly see the vibrant green she-dragon standing before him in his mind's eye. She was roughly his size, with their mother's graceful build and the six horns that identified a close relative of the King's line. Her green eyes were narrowed in scorn and the most venomous hatred, her snarl one he would give a Rider's pet before lunging in for the kill.

_You rule only over your own sick delusions, little Jarshan. Father impounded the law into you just as much as he did for all of us. Eridor was held down by the magic of a Forsworn while you slaughtered him in cold blood. The crown died with him, and it shall forever stay dead. Like whatever promises the madman gave you._

Jarshan growled aloud. _You dare impugn my master's honor!_

_Whether you choose to concede it or not, little brother, the five of us were nestmates once. Verdani, Eridor, Kelda, me, and you. Closer than mere kin, our minds mingling since the time of conception, hatching as one into a world you damned-_

His furious roar was thunder from the heavens, a terrible sound that startled a frantic Thorn from his sleep and set Shruikan yet again pacing restlessly through the lower floors. He snarled in hatred at an unseen sister who now existed only in memory and as a spirit to whom true death could never come. He snarled in defiance to a truth that had long since laid at the back of his mind, even as a seething part of what had once been the soul of a human boy, even as a dark star who had only impatiently awaited his return to the living.

_Shut up! _he had intended to shout. But his thoughts were too muddled for true language, coming out only as a maelstrom of fury and furious denial.

_I still have hope left, little brother, hope of an atonement you so foolishly threw away. How did it feel, to be amongst the ancestors? Because I certainly know you will never be welcomed amongst them ag-_

Jarshan pounced, trapping Thorn beneath his paws as easily as a cat would a mouse. Oblivious to the younger dragon's struggles, to the rapidly approaching presence of Murtagh, he sensed out his target, and reached for it with razor-sharp claws.

She had been the last placed, almost too large to have been squeezed in at all, a minor lump on Thorn's red hide. Jarshan's claws had no effort in ripping for her, tearing through crimson scales and muscle to yank out what looked like a massive emerald of the deepest green.

Jadine, his sister, his nestmate, his victim, fell silent. Mocking, expecting, pleading, emotions too complex for the simple language that had been gifted to their kind.

There were idle promises, empty words made by the fallible mouths of men that had only fickle resolve to keep them fulfilled. There the unbreakable oaths of magic that could transcend even death, binding a spirit to the will of another until willingly released or radically changed in a way Jarshan could not manage.

Above all else in a dragon's mind were ties of blood and bond. Of pacts wordlessly made before nestmates had even hatched, of the silent obligation that had led virtually an entire race to their deaths for a reason no outsider could possibly understand, of an ingrained sense of what was right and wrong beyond all other codes of feeble and hypocritical morality.

Jarshan's claws were not strong enough. But his jaws were, and they clamped down on a fragile shell that shattered in his mouth until all he could taste was his own blood and something innately foul that made him vomit everything back up.

Again, he felt for her, scouring every last bit of that Eldunari for a trace of her presence. Not even a remnant of that hatred, of that mockery, of that spirit that had been Jadine, lingered.

Jarshan absently got off of Thorn, uncaring of the blood and the vomit, and only patiently awaited for his master to catch wind of what had befallen in the dragon-hold.

Undoubtedly there would be rage and curses, of a torturous punishment Jarshan would certainly never be able to forget. There would be more oaths forcibly sworn, though he would have said them all willingly. Every single last loophole, every last bit of wriggle room that allowed for technical disobedience that was inherently obedient, would be sealed.

Jarshan couldn't have cared less.

Even his _master _couldn't change the fact that there were some places human magic could never touch.

* * *

Thorn had yet another couple of scars to show off to the imaginary mate he would most likely never meet before dying. There was also one less bulge inside his flesh, one less alien presence uncomfortably close to his own. He also had far more questions than ever before, the good fortune to not be the one who had drawn Galbatorix's ire this time, and the profound revelation that he did _not _enjoy his tormentor being tortured.

Jarshan had not resisted when a fuming Galbatorix had stormed up the dragon-hold with burning black eyes, a pained and bewildered Murtagh at his heels, had done nothing but dip his head in silent acknowledgment to his sins.

That had still not stopped the aptly-named Mad King from using his magic to haul the great dragon like a helpless kitten, tossing him from the dragon-hold to the courtyard below, before moving in for further punishment. Murtagh had been given just enough time to heal Thorn's wounds and share a private moment with his dragon before joining his master with explicit orders that left no room for mercy.

Thorn felt like he owed it (to Murtagh, to Jarshan?) to someone to watch. To Jarshan's credit, the stubborn old lizard had held out longer against Galbatorix than what had previously thought possible. He had grudgingly admired his 'king' for that.

Which had made the _screams _of agony, the desperate thrashing of a helpless mind as it had reached out futilely for solace, all the more unbearable to hear. Thorn had forced himself to listen, to commit such a nightmare to memory, so that he could remember to kill Saphira before Galbatorix could do such unspeakable things to her, before his future oaths forced him to inflict such hell.

_Who was she?_

He had no idea who he was even asking anymore. Jarshan had been reduced to something no dragon should suffer, but what Shruikan and Thorn himself had experienced on a daily basis before. Those remaining four Eldunarya were as silent and unresponsive as the dead. Murtagh had sealed his mind entirely off from his so that he would not have to bear another avoidable dark stain on his relatively young soul. And there was no way in the seven hells he would ever consider asking Galbatorix hims-

_Sister. Gray-scaled's sister._

At first, Thorn fancifully thought the soul of the little hatchling inside him had finally decided to break its silence. Only, as he had felt for that vaguely familiar presence, his crimson eyes came to a rest on the glittering black gem set into Galbatorix's ring. A lost soul, whose body was now a broken and battered beast his so-called Rider used to strike fear into his enemies, reduced to nothing but a piece of jewelry for a madman.

_Do I answer, do I answer- Ah, damn it... How do you know?_

_Was there for great-wild-battle, _the little stone that was the true soul of Shruikan answered. _Gray-scaled was six-horned, so was green-scaled, both king's kin. She near his size. Sister._

Thorn supposed he could request to peer into Shruikan's fractured recollections, or just peer into his own ancestral memory, but found he had no desire to do either. His own imagination was enough for him to vividly envision Jarshan diving down into a throng of vengeful wild dragons, the Forsworn right behind him with a force that would turn this battle into a massacre. At the front of those doomed to die was a she-dragon- six-horned, slender, green-scaled, with much family resemblence to Jarshan. She flew toward her brother with no fear in her blazing eyes, only promises of vengeance for her fallen loved ones spewing from her mind-

_Shruikan- if I can call you that-_

_I know no other name, little-one. I have no memory of my First-Rider._

_Did she kill him?_

_Aye. Gray-scaled hit first, slashed her neck with razor-claws. Green-scaled reached, ripped out Eldunari. Crushed it. Gray-scaled fell, nowhere to go but the stars. _Shruikan paused thoughtfully. _Painful death, but good. Nothing left for Master-Rider. Brave green-scaled not so lucky. Bled out, fell, skull crushed on rocks. Eldunari unbroken. _Then the seemingly impossible feeling of regret from a force Thorn had always both feared and pitied. _Had to grab green-scaled's Eldunari for Forsworn. Master-Rider made me. Wish I didn't. She in stars now, little-one?_

Looking up at a day-time sky that held no stars, and having no faith in the fact that his ancestors were looking down at him, Thorn supposed even blissful oblivion was better than a disembodied eternity of being imprisoned inside the body of another.

_Her heart of hearts is broken, aye. Jarshan saw to that. Can't say I blame him, either, for having that sort of courage. Not when there was no hope for his sister. _

_Then gray-scaled still good, at least better than me. Perhaps he can have stars. I can't. No after what I did for Master-Rider. You, go to stars. Heard what you want for blue-scaled-female. Good, over __**this**__. Second chance on earth when ready._

Thorn, for the first time, wished he could look Shruikan in the eye. How could such a simplistic mind still somehow manage to be confident in a way Thorn never could?

_We'll see, Shruikan, we'll see._

Knowing proud old Jarshan preferred to suffer in as much dignity as he could possibly muster when reduced to such a sorry state, Thorn unfurled his wings and temporarily left the dragon-hold and the hell that was Urubaen behind.

He needed the simple challenge and satisfaction of the hunt, the power over prey he could never have over his own life or that of his Rider's. Jarshan would eventually wake up aching and ravenous once he managed to claw his way back up to the dragon-hold. Even if he just collapsed in the courtyard, he would still have the scent of fresh meat to get him far back up beyond Galbatorix's reach, the first few bites of fresh nourishment that would start the slow and painful road to recovery.

_And who knows... those ancestors might just be willing to offer me a second chance when all of this is said and done. _

* * *

_Let sea serpents have their seas, the elves their forests, the dwarves their mountains, and mankind their towns and cities. Every single one of them were shackled to the ground by the bounds of gravity. Only able to stare longingly up at a domain so tantalizingly out of reach to even the most determined of them all and wish that fate had decreed otherwise._

_Let them have their earth. So long as he had the endless heavens, a boundless freedom he had regrettably discovered so late in life, and the ones that made such blessings actually worthwhile, he was the happiest soul alive or dead._

_Far beyond the influence of any civilization, where any man or dwarf had ever dared to tread, he and those he treasured above light itself enjoyed in flight and family. The range that some called the Beor Mountains were where he had hatched, had won his crown, had raised countless broods of strong sons and daring daughters. It was only natural that they return here in defiance to all that had been stolen from them to reclaim what death could never take._

_Trinnean and Caradoc flew miles below him, not as ungainly younglings, but as the young and proud adults they had deserved to be a century ago. Still with the carefree abandonment of hatchlings they chased each other and their siblings through canyons and over small peaks as if they had never been left in a sea serpent's care. Mavalis was right behind them, the same age as his nestmates, his jaws playfully snapping at Caradoc's tail whenever his elder brother trailed too close._

_Elva, fully grown as she was, was not above their game. She effortlessly avoided being tagged, a streak of violet lightning that no one could catch._

_Yet his eyes were truly now only for the beautiful she-dragon that flew right alongside him, wings beating in tandem with his. She who was Safiri, she who was Saphira, she who was one half of his soul and one half of his heart. Teasingly, she nipped at his neck, urging him higher and higher._

_Once, he would have cowered at such a challenge, for his feeble human lungs would not have been able to hand such thin atmosphere. But in his natural element, in a body gravity could not hold, he matched his mate stroke for effortless stroke of his powerful wings._

_Until even the towering peaks of the Beor Mountains were far below them, when their children had become nothing but small blurs of speeding color, when the spirits of their ancestors were close enough to touch._

_He looked curiously up at the night sky and the stars that mischievously winked back. There was no way he could count them all, not before the night's end, but even then he could tell the multitude of spirits were nowhere near as infinite as they had once been._

_They all should have been flying alongside the First King. His parents, his brothers and sisters, all of his sons and daughters, save for the four that still goofed about below. Had even the souls of dragons had faded quietly away into the night, giving up on the world and those few survivors who still struggled to rekindle their dying kind?_

_He flew ever higher, though he knew soon the strain would be too much for his flesh-and-bone wings to handle. So high above the world, above the chaos and confusion of life, the stars could see all that had been and ever would be. Though their memories faded upon their return to the world, to not be reclaimed until death, up there they could still __**see **__what eluded him so desperately here on earth._

_He looked back down._

_Alagaesia in its entirety was spread out before him, with a vivid detail no mapmaker could capture, alight with what looked to be fireflies that shimmered all colors of the rainbow. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, amethysts, topazes, a thousand other glowing gemstones he had no names for. Almost a mirrored image of the night sky above, one he had initially mistaken for a reflection until he had realized that these so-called stars were __**moving. **_

_With neither the earth nor the sky having the answers he suddenly so desperately required, he turned his gaze eastward._

_There was light on the horizon. His only thought was why it had taken it so-_

Eragon's eyes snapped open with a bleary grunt. Raising his head from his paws, he blinked against the haze of sleep still clouding his vision, surveying his surroundings while his mind struggled to catch up.

His right wing was draped over Saphira's slightly smaller form and his tail had entwined with hers during the night. He no longer felt the instant response to jerk away, not when it meant disturbing Trinnean and Caradoc for their own slumbers. Only just beginning to get the hang of flying, the brothers had had been perched upon his and Saphira's backs for most of the day. One youngling was still just light enough to carry, but Eragon's own back was beginning to ache after such prolonged periods. Elva had squeezed herself between Trinnean and Caradoc, not even caring there was a good chance one of them would roll over on her in their sleep.

Eragon glanced upward. The stars glittered coldly back at them from a blue-black sky that held no sign of an impending dawn. There was time yet before the others would appreciate him waking them all up.

_Eridor? Eridor, are you-_

His mind was empty of all foreign presence, entirely his own for the first since time since he had undergone a change of species in yet another fit of unconsciousness.

_Eridor! Can you-_

As the volume of his thoughts had risen, something inside his mind had stirred faintly. Eragon had instantly honed in on that presence, picking up nothing but glimpses of memory too faint to make out.

_Dreaming... in his own way._

The white dragon withdrew from his own mind, not liking how alarmingly faint Eridor's presence grew when he thought no one was paying attention, at how increasingly easy it was becoming for him to slip further and further away. Eragon had never mentioned it, had kept the thoughts locked deep inside his own mind. Eridor had never brought it up.

Had the old King of the wild dragons actually been onto him? Or was Eridor's concentration just so spent he no longer had much of an idea of what was going on inside a mind that had once been entirely his own?

Keeping a close eye on Eridor's flickering consciousness, Eragon anxiously awaited dawn, hoping that whatever mystery trip his mentor had planned included a way to restore him.

**Next chapter: Jarshan yet again recovers and begins to both grudgingly bond with his reluctant room-mate and the guy he'd previously written off as a mindless beast. Eragon and co. finally arrive at Du Weldenvarden for an awkward reunion with their old masters. But Eridor's fading fast. Is there anything that can be done for our favorite dead dragon?**

**1. As previously implied, Jarshan had a few conditions before agreeing to follow Galbatorix. Namely, those people he actually cares about are ****_not _****turned into batteries. Since he's really not a social fellow, those conditions ****_only _****applied to his mother and three brood-sisters. Being a douche, Galbatorix's vow lasted only up until Jarshan's first death. That was then voided the second he kicked the bucket, leaving Jadine to be abused the way she had been. Jarshan was either too apathetic while dead or caught up in trying to return to life to assume Galbatorix had 'broken' his word.**

**2. Even Jarshan has standards, folks. While total strangers can be damned, family is still family and totally off limits (so long as he cares about you.) Notice how he didn't rip out even Safiri's heart of hearts? Or Eridor's, so he could own him forever? No one wants to live as a battery for the bad guy. Jadine called out for help and Jarshan felt the urge to do so. ****_Some bonds are just older and deeper than anything those 'unbreakable vows' could ever manage._**

**3. Jarshan returned to his master from the vale of death. He also destroyed valuable property (it's not like there's any other dragon-hearts out there once they're all broken!) and showed his willingness to defy Galbatorix when it suits him by finding ways around his vows. Of course he was going to get punished.**

**4. Unlike in another story of mine, Shruikan's soul is relatively intact inside his Eldunari, even if his body is a play-thing to Galbatorix's sick mind. He still has a conscience, can reason, and can even speak, even if severely limited. His name wasn't taken away for a reason people!**

**5. Yes, yet another cryptic vision, just when Eridor's starting to slip away. And Elva came along for the ride. I'd rather hang out with my super-awesome adopted dragon family over feeling hurt and dying people (because the Varden is still an army with lots of wounded soldiers from the siege against Aroughs.)**

**6. In case no one's gotten it yet, Galby is BONKERS! His kingdom really doesn't matter to him anymore, or some of his servants... Hm, I wonder what's got him all distracted ;).**


	27. Act III: Chapter 3: Histories

**Looking back at my original chapters for this story, I couldn't help cringe at almost all of them. There's numerous typos, OOC moments, stilted dialogue that reminds me of Paolini at his worst... Yeah, as of this chapter's posting, I will be taking a break from the main plot to work on fixing the earlier chapters so they're less embarrassing to me. Remember, this is a post-Eldest AU! ****_No material published after Eldest counts as canon in Sunrise! _****_Y_****ou're all welcome to go back and read them, but the plot content is more or less the same. This thing has its own unique past and present from Paolini's canon and is being fleshed out with those differences in mind. So please keep that in mind if the information here doesn't mesh perfectly with what was presented in ****_Brisingr, Inheritance, _****and those "guides." **

**Disclaimer: ****_The Inheritance Cycle _****belongs to someone else. All original material you don't recognize from the actual series belongs to me.**

Jarshan did not appreciate the poetic irony of having been pinned down by magic, like he had once ordered Eridor and Safiri to have been. What tiny portion of his mind that hadn't been focused on the agony had been flashing back again and again to a proud dragon made helpless by enchantment, to the accusing gaze of a lifeless corpse, to the single egg that had been wrenched from his lifeless parents-

Growling deep in his throat, Jarshan ripped himself another bloody piece of meat. Even the new set of restrictions didn't prevent him from imaging a mutilated corpse as his _master's_.

_Is a simple 'thank you' too much to ask for? _Thorn quipped from the other side of the dragon-hold.

Jarshan bared his fangs halfheartedly. _I'm eating your gift without complaint. From your superior, that's thanks enough._

_Even when that 'gift' was out of pity?_

The elder dragon briefly entertained the idea of hurling a blast of fire at his impudent little room-mate. Maybe Thorn would appreciate some new scars to go along with his blackened belly. Until his stomach intervened, and Jarshan grudgingly went back to devouring _his _deer in the most violently intimidating way possible.

_Should've known that deceitful rat would have found a way to break his vows to me. I honestly don't know why I'm even surprised by it, even after all I did for him._

Thorn's spike of curiosity was noticeable from even across the dragon-hold. _Like what? Aside from killing your own brother, that is?_

Jarshan couldn't help but gape, one bloody strip of meat absently hanging from the left side of his mouth. How uneducated was this hatchling?

The crimson-scaled dragon cocked his head in bewilderment. _What?_

Jarshan could think of several ruthless punishments that fit such an ignorant display, but he was in no condition to carry them out. Enlightening the Rider's pet on his far nobler kith would have to do. _Even long before the elves first step foot in Alagaesia, long before Aiedail breathed his first, wild dragons had loyalties that went beyond their own personal needs and those of their mates. The bonds of blood and mind between nestmates allowed for clans that would support one another through the toughest of times. Second only to our own mates and broods, the wild dragons were expected to act in the good of their extended kin, for the benefit of the entire family..._

The so-called King of the wild dragon staggered to his paws, shoving the deer aside as he limped over. Heavily injured and humiliated, he still managed to tower over Thorn with the inborn grace of a royal dragon. _Do you know the sort of reasons it takes, to willingly betray such devotion, little orphan? Greed, envy, ambition- do you honestly think that is what __**truly **__drove me!_

Thorn shrunk back like the coward he was. Jarshan's heart of hearts soared with furious triumph as the rightful order finally asserted itself, as a member of the most heinous perversion of nature's balance finally realized his own betrayal of their kind. The King of the wild dragon's forced his way into Thorn's mind to properly relish the experience-

Only for it to dawn that the Rider's pet feared _him._

Everything left of the elder dragon's common sense shattered. His new oaths prevented him from physically pouncing, but his mind was free to completely overwhelm Thorn's. Then he let the horde of ancestral memories surge down upon his captive audience. There were no words to describe the treacheries, the atrocities, the slow and inevitable slide into oblivion.

So Jarshan merely remained the messenger, and let those he represented speak for themselves in a language that preceded the most archaic of the dwarven tongues that had ever been spoken aloud in Alagaesia.

* * *

_Is that the elf-forest? There, in the distance?_

Eragon glanced over to his right. The emerald expanse of Du Weldenvarden was little more than a smudge on the horizon from this distance. _Aye, Caradoc. That is Du Weldenvarden. You'll do well to remember its real name._

The light blue dragon snorted mutinously. He and Trinnean did their best to fly side by side in a wobbling course toward Ceunon. Saphira dutifully glided beneath them to both serve as an example and in case if one youngling should stumble. Eragon serenely glided behind them all, a shepherd keeping his small and rebellious flock on the right path. They'd all learned their lesson after Caradoc had nearly plummeted after trying to dart after a rather unfortunate hawk.

_It's too hard to say right!_

_I can say it. _Trinnean flashed his brother a smug grin, emerald eyes glinting impishly. _Du Weldenvarden, Du Welden-_

_Enough! _Eridor roared. Caradoc, who had been reached over to snap at his younger brother, smartly snapped right back into position. _You two are about to meet a dragon that was considered a revered elder long before even I was hatched. How are you two to act when you meet him?_

_On our best behavior, _the twins muttered.

Doubt prickled at Eridor's mind, but he nevertheless withdrew without further comment. As the structures of Ceunon began to go more defined, he and Eragon mixed minds, just as they had practiced. Their consciousnesses were nowhere near being truly fused, but the technique blurred their thoughts and feelings enough to come off as a unique entity. So long as Oromis or Glaedr didn't pry too much, they could all get to a private place before all hell broke loose.

_Don't worry, I'll keep them to it. _

Elva was casually sprawled out over Saphira's back only because Eragon was expected to be King of the wild dragons, and thus above being a beast of burden. Trinnean had volunteered to take his 'little-big-sister', but his four elders had all vetoed the idea when he had sharply tipped to the right in a moment of unbalance right after he had said this. Since dragging a saddle around had been out of the question, Elva had bullied one of Blodgharm's elves into magically toughening her skin and dress. Eragon had grudgingly admired the little girl for her ingenuity, if only because his own legs had been nearly shredded after that first disastrous flight with Saphira.

_Look. _Saphira nodded at the sea of tents that still encircled Ceunon. _The elves haven't moved out yet. Oromis must have been really insistent on this meeting._

She was apparently correct, for Eragon glimpsed a _massive _shape rising from a nearby copse of trees moments later. Glaedr's brilliant golden scales glittered magnificently in the morning sun. His heavy scarring and missing limb only increased the twins' terrified awe of him. Deep in the private corner of their conjoined minds, Eridor snorted in jealous derision.

While Caradoc and Trinnean had only eyes for the far more awe-inspiring Glaedr, Eragon was more riveted to Oromis himself. His mentor was clad in armor a near-identical color to the ancient dragon's scales, and couldn't have been a further sight from the tired and insightful elf Eragon remembered from their training sessions in Du Weldenvarden.

Eragon raised his head in his best imitation Eridor's haughty grace. Everyone was making their best first impressions, after all, and he really didn't want to be remembered as the hotheaded boy who had first arrived for tutelage those many long months ago.

Saphira had flown ahead to converse personally with her former masters. Eragon had been unable to eavesdrop without breaking the illusion, but the visual reactions were telling enough. Glaedr's massive amber eyes narrowed as he noticed the little girl sitting in Eragon Shadeslayer's customary place. Smirking, Elva had waved cheerfully back to a behemoth large enough to swallow her whole.

Everything had been going well until Glaedr had turned to survey the newcomers to the dragon race. Their courage breaking, Trinnean and Caradoc had both attempted to duck behind him. One of their wings had slammed into his body. Eragon had immediately gone to correct his position while Eridor started snapping at his sons at their "unacceptable behavior"-

The illusion had shattered. Oromis and Glaedr both possessed long memories time had not been able to dull. They recognized that voice as King Eridor's as clearly as they knew the mind inexplicably connected to his to be their former student' a mighty pump of her wings, Saphira surged ahead of the group to privately converse with her former teachers. Eragon was unable to reach out and listen without prematurely giving himself away, but the physical reactions were enough: He saw Glaedr's massive eye narrow as he noticed the little girl that now sat in Eragon Shadeslayer's usual place. Smirking, Elva waved cheerfully back.

For what seemed like an eternity, silence reigned, until Eragon's brave voice dared to pierce it. _Hello, Masters..._

* * *

In an isolated clearing far away from the prying eyes of Ceunon, Oromis struggled to correct his own glaring misconceptions with the far more impossible reality standing before him.

Back before his world had been turned upside down, he had believed the young white dragon with the uncanny resemblence to Eridor to have been the old king's _son, _one that had miraculously survived both the purge and capture by Galbatorix to hatch as Alagaesia's first wild dragon in almost a century. To Oromis, it had made perfect sense for this 'King Bluefire' to have claimed his father's crown, to have allied himself against the murderers of his parents, to have taken the last she-dragon in the world as his mate.

Leaning heavily against Glaedr, Oromis had nodded absently to everything he had just been told.

Eragon's glaring mispronunciation of the Ancient Language had forced an infant child into growing unnaturally fast to live up to her oaths. Oromis had already known that much. The fact that the strain from such pressures had completely killed Elvana's little spirit? Or that the soul now inhabiting this little girl's body was that of a long-dead she-dragon who had failed to stop Elvana's demise? Not the most tragic stories he'd ever heard, especially from all of the horror that had gone on during Galbatorix's massacre of Riders and dragons.

Oromis turned to Trinnean and Caradoc, the youngest dragons he'd seen in a good long while. The nearly identical brothers had taken to cowering behind Saphira, peering up every so often to stare at Glaedr before ducking back down again. Elva herself stood between them, stroking their noses and scratching at areas between their horns when nudged.

These little miracle children were _not _Saphira's, but rather two of Eridor and Safiri's last brood together. Oromis had not been surprised in the slightest that the sea serpents had fully reclaimed Vroengard. They had been a continuous pest to the Riders since Doru Araeba had first been established. However, it had taken him some time to swallow the idea that the ancestral enemy of the dragons had willingly sheltered two of their eggs for so long.

"I... see," the oldest surviving Dragon Rider said at long last, finally facing the biggest headache of them all. "There's no way for you to... change back?"

Eridor snorted mentally. _Is there a way for elves to be transformed into dragons?_

Oromis just contained his huff of exasperation. One thing he hadn't missed about the wild dragons had been their bluntness about _everything _they dealt in. Gods, he was having a difficult time handling the fact that the dragon version of the afterlife had turned out to be true...

**_Are _**_there any gods? No, Oromis, best not think about that now._

Glaedr nodded at Eragon and Saphira, a dragon and former Rider whose familiar dynamic had been so unnaturally contorted. _You two aren't..._

The sapphire-scaled she-dragon shook her head curtly. _Oh, no! Not until after this war is over. _She and Eragon glanced thoughtfully at each other. _Or, at least the season of mating. Having Trinnean and Caradoc nearby quells the... urges, but there's still the risk throughout the autumn. There's always time to consider the domestic issues after the Mad King's been slain._

Glaedr had simply nodded. Oromis had internally frowned at his dragon. _I don't know how you can be so unfazed by all of this. _

_Are you kidding, Oromis? You weren't the one that had to put up with a hatchling's lovesick advances for all of those torturous weeks! Look on the bright side, you don't have to worry about Eragon mooning over Queen Islanzadi's daughter anymore! He's found someone much closer to his own age, my race doesn't seem to be doomed to inevitable extinction, Arya and Eragon are no longer compatible-_

Having a whole new set of unsavory images to go along with his nightmares, Oromis shoved his dirty old dragon out of their private connection. "Your resounding victory at Aroughs has shown us that we no longer need a Dragon Rider in his prime on our side to win the war. The Varden still has Master Blodgharm and his forces, Arya Svit-kona, an improving Du Vrangr Gata, and now a new King of the wild dragons."

_That should at least shut Islanzadi up when she hears that Eragon is no longer completely vulnerable to her influence, _Glaedr again drawled privately. _Her revered dragons now seem well on the path to recovery. _To the others, he merely asked, _What are your plans now? Galbatorix is likely amassing his troops in Urubaen for an offensive campaign. He won't remain inactive forever._

_We go north, Ebrithil, _Eragon replied. Though his eyes were now a blazing blue, his mentor was still clearly able to recognize his former student in them. _I have not formally been crowned king yet. To __unlock my full power, I must undergo the King's Trial._

"Ah." Oromis inclined his head, knowing that was all he was going to be getting out of the white dragon. Wild dragons had always jealously guarded their secrets. With Eridor once more there to oversee the next generation, it seemed as if the divide was there to stay. "Don't let these old souls keep you then."

Rider and dragon suddenly found themselves pulled into a private conversation as Eragon severed their connections to the others. The moment the barriers had risen, Eridor's presence had started to flicker alarmingly. In that moment, Oromis realized that the spirit's illusion of power was about as real as his own.

_Elder Oromis, Elder Glaedr... I fear this shall be our last meeting._ Eridor chuckled with the amusement of a man on his deathbed. At_ least the one when I'm aware of myself, anyway._

Glaedr allowed no physical reactions to the statement, extending his neck so that Trinnean and Caradoc could dare touching him before dipping back behind Saphira. Inside, however, was a solemn resignation to the certainties of life. _At least this time we can have a proper farewell. Hopefully a far more civil one, at that._

Memories carried Oromis back to that last fateful encounter. Vrael had called for an emergency meeting between his council and the wild dragons. Ordinarily, this would have entailed the King of the wild dragons and the oldest and strongest of his offspring, one of whom would be the most likely to eventually succeed him. Yet it had been late in autumn, the season of mating, and many of Eridor's daughters were heavily expecting or looking after newly laid clutches. Every single last one of his sons had refused to attend, for in such troubling times, their protective instincts toward their mates and new broods had been ever stronger. Despite Safiri expecting yet another clutch, Eridor alone had grudgingly flew to Doru Araeba due to ancient obligations to upholding the peace, and he had been anxious to return home the moment after touching down.

The number of the dead and disappeared, both amongst the Order and the wild dragons, had been rising with each day. Reports had been constantly streaming in of Galbatorix and his Forsworn heading the persecutions, of Urgal tribes ambushing nesting mothers in their most vulnerable time, of rogue human magicians banding together to take down Shur'tugal that had strayed too far from their cities.

Such devastation to the ranks couldn't have come during a worse time. She-dragons, both wild and bonded, seemed to be laying few eggs each year. Out of those shrinking clutches came fewer eggs that proved viable, fewer hatchlings that survived to adulthood, fewer eggs being donated to the Varden. The wild dragons had not reacted well when Riders seeking eggs had come more frequently, more insistent in their pleas, until one desperate Shur'tugal had _dared _to try and steal the one remaining egg of a clan that had never taken too well to being harassed. The charred remnants of himself and his dragon had been tossed out for the scavengers.

That descent had continued until Vrael had personally checked the stores, and had discovered a single egg left amongst the entire Order.

Oromis and Glaedr had been amongst the majority of the council members convinced that Eridor would persuade his subjects to donate more of their eggs to the effort, to replenish the ranks before Galbatorix could diminish them any further. Eridor had been of one of the last clutches King Vanilor and Ocurni had ever produced. From a very young age, he had often journeyed to Doru Araeba with his parents on diplomatic affairs, and thus grew up understanding the Riders better than most of his kind. In his late thirties, Eridor had been far younger than many of his stubborn kin, far less set in his ways, far more likely to listen to reason.

Eridor had not been convinced. He had snarled at Vrael, rumbling about how he could command _no _dragon to give up their children.

Then the youngest council member had suggested for the King of the wild dragons to hand over his _own _offspring.

Never before had Oromis personally witnessed the phenomenon known as the King's Wrath. Never again did he want to see it.

Eridor's eyes had burned with _righteous _fury, and the volley of fire he had unleashed upon the brazen offender could have come straight from hell. Those flames had burned straight through the enchantments that the council member had tried to put up around herself and her dragon.

The white dragon had slipped off amid all of the commotion, leaving behind burn-marks that would take weeks to magically heal and singes in the council chamber that had outlasted the Order itself. Not long after that, news came that Eridor and Safiri had been found murdered in their cave, and that no successor had stepped forward to fill the vacuum in power. Without a single dragon to hold the wild clans together, to act as the mediator between Rider and his volatile kind, the delicate balance between the two had crumbled for good.

_Aye, _Oromis replied at long last. _We're all in need of a far more amiable goodbye._

Eridor growled stubbornly with a spirit not even death had been able to temper. _If you're still expecting an apology for that, wait another lifetime, Elders. My children are my own, and they will live their lives as they choose. _He sighed, Eragon's eyes involuntarily moving to gaze at Trinnean and Caradoc. _Look at my sons, innocent and untouched by the travesties of this war. Where would they be right now, if I had donated them to you? Long dead alongside their new Riders, still languishing in Galbatorix's treasure trove, or mindless slaves of his like Shruikan? I will never regret giving them their freedom of choice. __**Never.**_

_We respect you for your resolve, your Majesty, _Glaedr said with a reverent dip of his head. _May we meet again, be it amongst the stars or elsewhere._

_The same to you, Master Glaedr. And we depart on relatively good times, Master Oromis, as good as I can ever manage them._

Everyone exchanged their farewells. Leaning once more against his dragon, Oromis watched in bemusement as Elva imperiously chose Eragon as her new mode of transporation, then outright laughed when Trinnean tripped in his take-off, dragging Caradoc down with him as he struggled for balance. As the strange group became mere blobs on the horizon, only then did it occur to the two ancient masters they had egregiously forgotten something.

_Do you think we should tell Eragon the truth about his parents? _Glaedr muttered. _Or at least the fact that Brom was his true father? We may never get another chance after this._

The ancient Dragon Rider glanced at the magnificent white dragon his student had become, and knew the distant past was the furthest thing from his mind. _In the end, what does it even matter? Surely Eragon doesn't have to worry about his future children resembling any one from __**his **__side of the family. I sense he has far more important issues on his mind now than those of blood. Besides, Saphira still knows the truth. She'll tell her... companion when he's ready._

Glaedr hummed absently, licking between the claws of his one remaining foot. _I wonder if I can get myself reborn as one of their future hatchlings, just to see if the theory is true. You can find me again in my new life, too... if it's possible for elves to do that._

Oromis pondered over this enigma, and then cursed the odd pain that was King Eridor for giving him yet another unsolvable mystery to waste his free time on.

* * *

Trinnean and Caradoc both curled up close to Eragon that night, their eyes glimmering brilliantly in the darkness as they stared up at him in awe. He had temporarily relinquished control of his body over to Eridor. The old King of the wild dragons relished in the opportunity to physically drape his wings over his two sons, to gaze down at them on his own power without relying on the movements of another. Eridor had rested well during the remainder of that day's flight, only prodded awake by Eragon when they had been landing. He had plenty of energy for what was to come.

_Elva? _he called to the she-dragon he considered his daughter, regardless of appearance or actual blood relation. _Would you care to join us?_

The girl's violet eyes brightened in realization. "The old family tradition, Father? I'm not a hatchling, anymore, you know."

Eridor chuckled hoarsely, savoring the sound of a physical voice. _No. But you're smaller than your younger brothers now, so I figure your pride can make this one exception. Besides, Eragon and Saphira are listening._

Eragon snorted wryly, for once the disembodied voice in the back of their shared mind. _I really don't have choice here._

Saphira rolled her eyes. _Oh, don't be so melodramatic. Be a good example for the no-longer-quite-hatchlings._

Elva remained quiet as she burrowed herself between Trinnean and the body that, at least for now, Eridor could call his own. With his audience all settled down for the night, he followed his memories back to far happier days, and repeated the old story to a new generation that would hopefully survive to pass them on again.

_We wild dragons need no exaggerations, no blatant lies to spice up our tales. We have no need for anything but the truth, for what truly is in this world. That which I am about to tell you tonight is no mere myth, no fantasy, no legend, but the truth my own father gave to me when I was your age. And my father learned it from his father, and he from his mother, and back and back until we reach the first ruler of the wild dragons. Now, the time has come for this truth to be passed down onto you..._

* * *

Long before I ever breathed my first, before the first elf ever step foot off his silver ship onto this land, there were no King or Queen dragons to maintain order amongst our sometimes fatally proud kind. Each dragon was only loyal to their clan; their mate, their offspring, their parents, their countless siblings. In those times, every clan had their own unique features, those to mark them as either friend or foe. One clan would have white-speckled wings, another curled horns, another no horns at all. A dragon knew his mate would come only with his or her own clan's marking; all others were considered the enemy, yet more competition for precious territory and prey.

Every single clan possessed their own ancestral cave, a homeland the earliest of their ancestors had chosen for their future generations. As more eggs were lain, as more hatchlings matured to adulthood and produced broods of their own, clans found their territories overlapping. Bloody battles would either make clans once again small enough for their borders, or wipe them out entirely so the victor could take their place.

In their own individual pride, one haughty dragon could drag his entire clan into a war over something as petty as having glanced at another clan's pretty young female. Too proud to admit fault, both sides were willing to fight down to the last newborn hatchling to prove their point. Their way of life would have proved to be our race's entire undoing, and the ancient dragons knew it. Yet, again in their arrogance, none dared to admit the traditions of their most ancient ancestors as self-destructive.

And such a vicious cycle would have continued, had something strange not happened in the greatest of this clans.

What set this great clan apart from all the others has been lost even to our memory. Some say pure-white scales, but how can this be true, when color amongst our kind is impossible to truly determine, when a black egg can show up to two yellow parents? Despite all that, this clan leader was ancient, and as mighty as the mountain he and his mate's countless broods had hatched in. Many of his sons and daughters had gone to have hatchlings of their own, to expand the numbers of their clan until they were superior to all others. So what if he had outlived almost all of them? His children had given their lives so that their territory could expand to hold the ever-growing numbers of their kith and kin. What greater honor could there have been?

Until this old male's mate had laid a single egg the color of storm clouds. Ancient as this female was, this in itself was not unusual. But when the resulting son hatched with _six _horns? Oh, was there an uproar amongst his siblings and cousins, but his father most especially?

The old male had _dared _call his loyal mate, she who was now one half of his soul, a _traitor, _for what dragon in their clan had six horns? Not a single one in their clan, nor in any of the neighboring clans. Though the old male searched far and wide for someone to take his wrath out on, he found nowhere, and his mate's memories proved she had been nothing but faithful to him and their sacred bond.

The six-horned abomination was cast out from his clan. Without a clan for support and protection, the predators would surely claim his unnatural life. Even if he did survive to maturity, what was the point? Surely no female would accept such a freak as her mate, and how could a dragon survive without the company of his own kind before falling into despair?

Despite the odds stacked against him, the six-horned male survived until his chest had broadened with adulthood and his inner fire had ignited with the passion of his spirit. When the season of mating had come around, he had gone off to find himself a mate of his own, flying off to the closest clan he could find.

Naturally, everyone of the clan had attempted to drive the intruder out, but the six-horned male defeated every single one of them. Though rejected by the eligible young females, the male was persistent. He would always be there to answer their challenges, to leave fresh kills at the mouths of their caves, to defiantly roar out mating calls in the middle of the night until one of his potential mates roared at him to shut up.

Eventually, one of the females had noticed the interloper's temerity. He had bested all other of her interested suitors in battle, had managed to provide her a fresh kill every day, and would undoubtedly father strong offspring. Though her clan had roared in outrage, the female followed her own heart and sound reasoning, until the day she and her six-horned male became one in body and spirit.

Now, the female was the favorite daughter of the clan leader, and killing the six-horned male would have certainly been the death of her. So the pair was allowed to live, though the clan kept their distance from them both. In time, eggs were laid and hatched, the resulting offspring all bearing their sire's unique six horns. When the mating season again rolled around, these dragons were ready for mates of their own, and all shared their father's dogged persistence. Taking mates amongst their mother's clan and its neighbors, their numbers continued to expand.

Though every single offspring of the original six-horned male shared in his unique trait, many of his children's children had either only one or two pairs of horns. With the clans readily mixing now, their own signature features vanishing as bloodlines blurred too much for anyone to tell apart.

Too large to remain a single clan, the six-horned dragon's descendents spread out into Alagaesia, forming smaller familial groups of their own. Despite this, all were still resoundingly loyal to their forefather, the six-horned male responsible for their entire existence. When these smaller 'clans' had squabbled over territory, or with dragons that now preferred living alone or with merely their own mates, they had turned to the six-horned male for guidance. With him quick to beat sense into any who challenged his decision, his word soon became law.

Meanwhile, as the neighboring clans had fallen to pieces all around him, the ancient male couldn't have cared less. The upheaval had given his own clan the opportunity to greatly expand their territory, and his own numbers couldn't have been higher.

Yet his tolerance in the new way of life had evaporated completely when he caught six-horned intruders at _his _border trying to steal _his _clan's young females. Against all odds, that bothersome little son had survived to pop out hatchlings of his own, and had undoubtedly spread the problem further.

Calling his clan together, the ancient male had departed from his territory to personally track down and kill his errant son, uncaring when new dragons were quick to claim the vacated caves and hunting grounds as their own. He had been consumed by his lust for vengeance, and not even his mate had been able to pierce the fog of madness clouding his sanity.

The ancient male discovered his six-horned son on a lonely mountain with only his mate and several half-grown offspring for company. Thinking this to be his impudent hatchling's entire clan, the ancient male had thundered down from the heavens to personally deal with the root of the problem before having his clan obliterate its remnants.

The ancient male was nearly as massive as the mountain he had first hatched in, a behemoth that had finished off countless neighboring clans and rebellious sons and daughters that had tried to wrest power from him. Yet the six-horned male had faced his father head-on. He had used his smaller size to his advantage, twisting and turning around his sire's clumsy swipes. His flames had melted centuries' old scales right off, burning right through to the ancient dragon's flesh and bone beneath.

Increasingly unstable, the monster of a dragon tried to swallow his son whole... and got blinded by a plume of blazing blue fire for his efforts. Far from defeated, and absolutely furious, the ancient male decided to ignore his child entirely in favor of destroying his family while the six-horned male was powerless to interfere. Loyal to the bitter end, his clan had unquestioningly obeyed his every command.

The six-horned male reared back his head and _roared._

From every corner of Alagaesia, from every surrounding mountain, his 'clan' answered.

The heavens themselves flashed every color of the rainbow as dragons dived down from the clouds, swarmed forth from every cave and valley. Too late did the ancient male and his clan realize that the six-horned's subjects included _everyone _but them.

The heavens darkened, the dragons closed in, and the bloody reign of clan against clan came to an end as the six-horned incinerated his mountain-sized sire into ash.

The six-horned ruled for many more decades to come, until the time was ripe for change, and one of his own sons bested him in battle. In time, he too would die, he and his mate willingly departing for the stars when they had felt they had both lived their lives to to the fullest. His star is the first to rise every afternoon, and the last to set every dawn. Some elders say that he will not fall to earth for rebirth until the end of the world, to burn away the earth itself so it to can rise anew from the ashes of the old.

Long before the ancient pact was sealed with the elves, long before our ancestors learned 'civilized' tongues of speech, the six-horned male had a name. Above all else, he was the First King, The First To Rise, The Last To Fall, the Morning Star. Now, he is most simply known as Aiedail.

**Yay for background building :D! But was that last little story truth, or a history so ancient the truth was muddled up into myth and legend? Most importantly, what does it tell us about the dragons, aside that they have a very good reason to not get caught up in all these apocalyptic scares? ("See, the Morning Star's still up. So suck it, 2012!")**

**Next chapter: North we will go, but will Eridor hold out that long? What possible reasons did Jarshan have for turning his back on his entire freaking family? What sort of shit went down before Galbatorix killed off all of the witnesses?**

**1. ****_Come on, _****people, you don't think Jarshan was really that one-dimensional a villian, did you? ...Don't answer that, 'cause he originally was XD. However, my over-active mind filled in the holes. That disdain for Riders, Rider's dragons, and every bipedal mammal out there goes beyond petty racism. Way, way, WAY beyond...**

**2. We only see through Oromis's and Glaedr's perspectives once all hell breaks loose for them. Before that, we see everything through Eragon's hero-worshiping eyes. Eragon and Saphira discuss rather... unsavory things in private. Even two 700+ year old farts need to have a little life left in them! And honestly, considering everything they've been through, I think the whole "Rider is suddenly biologically compatible and eager with his willing dragon" would be the most mind-warping thing out there.**

**3. So Brom is Eragon's true birth father... Okay, why does it even freaking matter anymore? Eragon certainly doesn't have to worry about his kids looking like his parents, his paternity didn't stop Brom from walloping him with a stick, and would be absolutely nothing but another time-wasting distraction in an already stressful situation. Sorry, Brom-message, we'll get to you when we're ready.**

**4. Highly proud dragons + strong familial ties + lack of a central power = hell for everyone involved. If these myths are true, then genes favored in certain clans became their 'identifying' mark. Which inevitably leads to inbreeding, birth defects, and yet more reasons why the dragons were doomed. So, yay for mutations in the gene-pool to throw everything off balance! If anyone cares, I've been planning to use some "myth" involving Aiedail the moment he suddenly starts being used as an exclamation by the wild dragons in this story ;). The earlier versions involved him fighting a massive dragon sort of like this version's "ancient male" and sealing him away inside the center of the earth when he proved too strong for death to claim. Meh, this one seems less outlandish.**

**5. Since the dragons are a highly magical race that laugh in the face of physics and nature, the six-horned gene purposefully makes no real genetic sense. It's a mutation in "Aiedail", okay, and dominant in the fact that every single one of his offspring inherited the trait. Grandchildren, however? Most don't inherit, with the percentage of descendents with six horns decreasing every generation away from the last King or Queen ancestor. Let's just say it has something to do if the baby dragon in question has the ability to house the devastating powers of the King's Wrath, which would ****_shred _****a normal dragon apart with its power. Strength for ****_that_**** is connected to strength of spirit, so theoretically any old soul with the right stuff could stand the chance of being crowned King or Queen. (Like Eragon, who happens to be physically unrelated to any dragon out there :D.)**

**6. As Eridor said, names for wild dragons apparently didn't develop until Eragon I dared to ****reverse the name Maud'Dib for his own little dragon. The six-horned male eventually becomes the morning star, thus Aiedail ("Morning Star") in the ancient language. To modern dragons, it's as close as a name they can pronounce without all of the weird movements and miming. (Lookin' at you, Glaedr, for that one little display in ****_Eldest_****)**


End file.
